UNIVERSAL
UBRARY
THE WOMAN
(MALOMBRA)
THE WOMAN
(MALOMBRA)
BY
ANTONIO FOGAZZARO
AUTHOR OF **THE SAINT"
Tra7islated from the Italian
BY
R THOROLD DICKSON
J. B, LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
1907
All rights nsemed
CONTENTS
PART L — CECILIA
CHAPTER I
I'AGS
IN A STRANGE COUNTRY . . • . . 3
CHAPTER II
THE CASTLE . . . . • . 27
CHAPTER III
PHANTOMS OF THE PAST .... * 42
CHAPTER IV
CECILIA 59
CHAPTER V
A STRANGE STORY , . . ... 66
CHAPTER VI
A GAME OF CHESS . . . . • , I18
CHAPTER VII
SCANDAL 134
* V
vi
CONTENTS
CHAPTER VIII
OUT IN THE STORM .....
CHAPTER IX
THE LETTER BAG ......
PART II.— THE RED-AND-BLACK FAN
CHAPTER I
NEWS FROM NASSAU .....
CHAPTER II
STEINEGGB .......
CHAPTER ni
THE RED-AND-BLACK FAN .....
CHAPTER IV
IN THE CAVERN ......
CHAPTER V
A DECREE OP FATE . . . , .
PART III.— A DREAM OF SPRINGTIME
CHAPTER I
IN APRIL
CHAPTER n
pagl.
147
167
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CONTENTS
PART IV.— MALOMBRA
CHAPTER I
I KNOW IT, I KNOW IT, HE IS HERE ONCE MORE
CHAPTER II
A MYSTERY ......
CHAPTER III
PEACE
CHAPTER IV
A FORMIDABLE VISITOR . , .
CHAPTER V
UNFIT TO LIVE . . . •
CHAPTER VI
A CLEAR SKY . . . .
CHAPTER VII
MALOMBRA
CHAPTER VIII
vii
PAGE
327
345
366
394
422
435
463
LOVED AT LAST
491
PART I
CECILIA
THE WOMAN
(MALOMBRA)
CHAPTER I
IN A STRANGE COUNTRY
One after another the doors are banged to ; perhaps,
thinks an eccentric traveller, by that iron fate which now
without appeal will whirl away himself and his fellow-
passengers into the darkness. The engine whistles, a
succession of violent shocks passes from carriage to carn-
age ; the train moves out slowly beneath the ample roof,
passes from the light of the signal-boxes into the dark-
ness of the night, from the confused noises of the great
city into the silence of the sleeping fields ; winds, puffing,
like some huge serpent, among the labyrinth of tracks,
until, having found the right one, it dashes along it, palpi-
tating from end to end, a mass of living, tumultuous pul-
sations.
It is hardly possible to guess what were the thoughts
of our quixotic traveller as he was whirled along amid
puffs of smoke, clouds of sparks, and the dim forms of
trees and squalid huts. Perhaps he was seeking the
hidden meaning of the strange illegible monogram on
a portmanteau lying on the opposite seat, for he kept
his gaze fixed upon it, now and then with a twitch-
ing of the lips as of one who attempts a calculation,
4
MALOMBJ^A
and then with eyebrows raised, as one does when the
result is an absurdity. The train had passed a few
stations when a name shouted out repeatedly in the
darkness roused him from his reverie. A puif of fresh
air had scattered the fine threads of his meditation and
the train had stopped. He got out hurriedly ; he was the
only passenger for .
^ Beg your pardon, sir,’ said a rough, strident voice, ‘ but
is your honour expected by the gentlemen at the castle ? ’
The question was put by a man who stood facing him,
touching his cap with his left hand and holding a whip in
the nght.
‘ I am afraid I don’t understand.’
*Oh! Great heavens,’ said the man scratching his
head, ‘ who can it be then ? ’
‘Well, tell me the name of the gentlemen at the castle.’
‘Ah ! well, you see down our way we call them the
gentlemen at the castle, and that’s the only name we know
them by. For ten miles round everyone knows who is
meant; you come from Milan and that’s another story.
Bear with me, I am jesting, and I know the name, but
for the life of me at the present moment I can’t remem-
ber. We poor folk haven’t very good memories at the
best of times, and besides, such a curious, uncommon
name ! ’
‘Well, what is the name?’
‘Don’t hurry me, don’t talk, don’t confuse me. Hi !
there, a light ! ’
A porter came slowly down the platform, his arms
hanging straight at his side, with a lantern dangling so as
almost to touch the ground.
‘ Don’t bum your trousers. Nobody will pay for a new
pair,’ quoth the youth with the short memory. ‘ Hold
up that clumsy lantern of yours. Here, let me have it
m A STRANGE COUNTRY 5
a moment.’ And grabbing at the lantern he almost hit
the traveller in the face as he held it up.
‘ You’re the man, sir, you’re the man ; just the very de-
scription they gave me. A young gentleman with black
eyes, black hair, and a dark complexion. Hurrah ! ’
‘ But who told you all this ? ’
* Why, his lordship to be sure.’
* A queer business this,* thought the new arrival to him-
self, ‘ A man whom I’ve never seen and who says in his
letter that he’s never seen me.’
* Wait a minute,’ exclaimed the other as he fumbled in
his pocket. ‘ Even my old woman couldn’t have been
more stupid, even if she tried. Didn’t his lordship give
me something to make you know me by? I’ve got it
somewhere. Ah, here it is.’
It was a card smelling of tobacco and diity paper-
money, and bore the name : —
‘Cesare d’Ormengo.’
‘ Let us be off,’ said the new-comer.
Outside the station stood an open chaise. The horse
tied to a fence, his head drooping, was resignedly awaiting
his fate, ‘ Get in, your honour, the seat is a bit hard, but
you see we are in the country. Whoa ! ’ And catching
up the reins the nimble charioteer sprang on to the box,
and, cracking his whip, sent the horse flying down the
dark lane as coolly as though it had been mid-day.
‘ No cause to be afraid,’ he remarked, * even though it
were as dark as a wolfs gullet. The mare and I know
this road by heart, every inch of it Whoa ! Only last
night I drove two gentlemen, from Milan like yourself.
Oh, he is a grand old gentleman is the Count,’ he added
pleasantly, edging away from his companion and sitting
6
MALOMBRA
on the handle of the whip. * What a good man ; and
what a gentleman ! Why, he has friends m every quarter
of the globe. To-day comes one, to-morrow another,
and all of them fine gentlemen, men of science and all
the rest of it. But your honour will know all about this
already.’
* I ? Why, it’s the first time I’ve been here.’
‘ Yes, so I see. But you know his lordship ? ’
*No’
* Well, I never ! ’ exclaimed the driver with profound
astonishment. ‘A fine character, sir. I’m a friend of
his,’ he added, without stopping to explain whether as a
fine gentleman or as a man of science. ‘I have seived
him so long. Why ! only to-day he stood me a glass.
I don’t know whether it was French wine or English
wine, but, oh • it was wine ! Ah ! ’
^ Any family ? ’
‘No. That IS to say — ’
At this point the right hand wheel gave a lurch as
they passed over a big heap of gravel.’
‘Hold your tongue and look where you’re going to,’
growled the traveller.
His driver at once belaboured the poor steed with
blows and curses, and they dashed forward at a gallop.
As they crossed the bridge over a mountain torrent
the night grew clearer. To the right, the white line of
the sandy river bed lost itself in an immense stretch of
open country ; on the left and in front were low hills
resting against a line of loftier ones; behind them,
jagged mountain peaks standing out against the grey
sky.
Nothing was heard but the horse’s trot, and from time
to time the scrunching of the gravel beneath the wheels
and the persistent baik of dogs fretting at their chains.
IN A STRANGE COUNTRY
1
Horse, driver and traveller went on silently together as
though impelled by the same motive towards the same
goal, thus offering a picture of the fragile nature of
human compacts and the artificiality of our alliances.
For the first was in secret making for his warm and
comfortable stable, the second for a certain wine from
a certain red-cheeked landlady, a good wine sparkling
with love and laughter j while the third, the most in-
telligent and the most civilised of the three, knew not
the road nor the goal to which it led.
They drove clattering through dark deserted hamlets,
whose gloomy cottages seemed to stand on guard over
the slumbers of their humble inmates ; they passed by
gardens and pretentious little villas, whose frippery had
a tawdry aspect in the solemn shades of night. After
a long stretch of level country their road lay by sun-
warmed hills all facing towards the east, and then
dipped suddenly into a narrow, gloomy valley flanked by
forest-clad mountains. At times the road hugged an
outlying spur, at times twisted away as though shudder-
ing at the rugged touch, at length took a bee-line up
the steep ascent. The horse dropped into a walk, the
driver jumped down, and, letting his whip trail behind
him, said, in decisive tones, * A long business/
*To return to my question,’ remarked the traveller as
he lighted a cigar. * Any family ? ’
‘ Not I, your honour. My wife is ugly, old, and ill-
tempcred as the fiend.’
* Not you, stupid ; the Count/
* Ah, his lordship 1 Who knows. One never knows
anything about gentlemen’s affairs. Sometimes one
thinks they are married, one hears that there is a lady,
that there are children ; and then, when the master is on
his death-bed, and you wish to invoke a blessing for the
8
MALOMBRA
poor lady, she vanishes ; on the other hand, they some-
times live like friars, and yet when the crash comes
there is the lady with her tears and her claws. A nice
thing to be a gentleman ! Now, if I get to know a pretty
girl she throws me over within a fortnight ; but my wife
will stick to me as long as there is breath in her body.
His lordship lived alone for some years, but now there
is a young lady at the castle. Some say she is his
daughter, some his niece. As a matter of fact, she is
his housekeeper. The dull clods of peasants say that
she is ugly. Your honour will see whether she is ugly.
Ah ! I ought to have been born a gentleman.’
As though to console himself, the strange fellow struck
a furious blow at the mare, which went off at a gallop
with his mterlocutor, and so broke off the conversation.
R*eaching, after a long pull, the top of the hill, she
stopped to take breath. From the summit the sceneiy
changed. Steep mountains rose on the right and left,
barely leaving space between them for the road. Other
mountains, hghtly tipped with mist, rose above the dark
tops of the trees at their base, facing the hill down which
the road lay.
The driver jumped up again on to his box and went
down the hill at a trot towards the tall trees of an avenue
which rapidly opened out before them. Between the
trees a more extended view was seen ; it became lighter,
and stretches of vineyard could be discerned.
A light which appeared on the right side of the road
came in front of the horse, which pulled up.
‘ Well ? ’ asked a voice.
‘ Oh, he’s come, he’s come,’ replied the driver, jumping
down. ‘We are there, your honour. Thank you, sir,
I shall drink your health. You are a gentleman and
no one dare say ought but good of you, I thank your
IN A STRANGE COUNTRY
9
honour and I wish you good-night. Here, take the
gentleman's bag.
‘ Signor Silla ? ' said the man with the lantern, who
looked like a servant.
' I am he.'
‘ At your service, sir.'
He led the way in silence, with the bag in his right
hand and the lantern in his left, down the narrow path
flanked by low rough walls, along which the light danced
and glided, driving before it, dragging m its train, the
darkest of the shadows.
In vain did Silla peep curiously over the top of the
walls ; all he could see was the shadowy forms of a few
trees hanging over from the steep hillside, their scanty
branches raised as in amazement and supplication. The
clanging of a bell made him start ; his guide had halted
before an iron gate. It was soon opened, and the flints of
the pathway and the outline of the gate were swallowed
up m the darkness ; the light of the lantern now fell on
the finest gravel, and, on either side, upon dark-leaved
plants with thick impenetrable foliage. After the gravel,
grass and a badly-traced track passing among vines in
full foliage and leading to the middle of a broad staircase
of black, irregular slabs. The beginning and the end
were both out of sight ; but from the top and from the
bottom of the steps was heard the gentle voice of falling
water. The guide stepped cautiously over the shaky
stones, which gave out a metallic sound beneath their
feet. By the pale light of the lantern could be seen at
regular intervals two enormous pedestals supporting two
grey human forms, motionless on either side of the steps.
At length the last step was reached, the light passed over
a fine red gravel and played on the large leaves of arums
planted along the edge, while, hard by, a spring murmared
10
MALOMB^A
gently in the darkness. The guide turned to the left,
turned the corner of a lofty edifice, went up two steps, and
with a ceremonious bow opened a large glass door to the
new arrival.
In the brightly-lighted vestibule stood a gentleman
dressed from head to foot in black, who came forward to
meet him, bowing profoundly and rubbing his hands to-
gether.
‘ Good evening. You are welcome. His lordship has
retired, the hour being a little — how shall I say ? — a little
late. He has charged me to make his excuses. I have,
in fact, the honour of being his lordship's secretary.
Allow me to show you the way to your room. Allow me.
You will perhaps wish to go there. After you, I beg.'
The ceremonious secretary showed the new-comer
up a noble staircase and accompanied him as far as
the first floor, where, having obtained his promise to
come down to supper later on, he handed him over to
the care of the servant and went downstairs, waiting for
him in the dining-room, where supper was laid for two,
and where the stranger very soon put in an appearance.
Not, however, because he was hungry, but because the
singular man who had invited him to the meal had
aroused his curiosity.
The secretary looked about fifty. Two small light
blue eyes sparkled in a wrinkled, sallow face, beneath two
great shocks of hair that was no longer auburn, and was
not yet grey. His hair and complexion, the mechanical
rapidity of his movements, certain petrified consonants
and certain deep-toned vowels that issued from his mouth,
as though out of a cavern, at once stamped him as a
German. The old-fashioned cut of the spotless black
clothes, the stiff collar and cuffs and white shirt-front
were, moreover, those of a German and a gentlemaa
IN A STRANGE COUNTRY
n
But, for one curious circumstance, the gentleman ended
at the wrists. The hands were large, brown, covered
with scars, flabby and cracked on the back, homy in the
palm They bore the record of long hours of heat, of
frost, of exhaustive toil. They had lost all pliability,
and no longer gave expression to his thoughts as the hand
of a man of culture is wont to do. In their stead, the
ever-moving arms and shoulders spoke with brusque
energy, with passion. More eloquent still was his face.
It was an ugly, merry face, comical and full of fun,
sparkling with fire ; a labyrinth of fine wrinkles which
conti acted and expanded about two bright little eyes,
now wide open and serious, now contracted by mirth or
anger or pain into two bright flashing points. Sudden
flushes of blood would rush upwards from the neck,
spreading over his face and forehead, but leaving the
sallow line around the purple shining nose. In short, the
whole soul of the secretary was written there on his face ,
emotion, sorrow, rejoicing passed across it in agitated
succession like a light driven hither and there by the
wind behind a transpaicnt screen. His voice had the
tone of sincerity, and was of varied compass ; it was more
vehement than that of a southerner, and often raised a
smile by its accent, by the mmps from deep notes to
high ones, but it was an xhipressive voice. And he
talked much that evening at supper, eating hardly any-
thing, emptying his glass often. He began with a series
of ceremonious courtesies, somewhat stiff, somewhat ex-
aggerated, little friendly approaches that found no echo
in the cold reserve of the guest ; then the conversation
turned on general topics, the secretary talking of Italy
with the air of a man who has seen many countries and
many cities, who possesses a wide knowledge of men and
of affairs, and introduces into every discussion, with the
12
MALOMBHA
coolest self-confidence, unexpected views, new opinions,
that perhaps will not bear calm criticism though they
carry away the vulgar. Yet he did not display the
cynicism of one who has travelled much, nor manifest a
tendency towards the nihil admirarL So far from this,
the sonorous cavities of his chest were full of sounds of
admiration which exploded every minute. His com-
panion must have strangely taken his fancy to induce him
to talk so much to one who maintained a reserve that
partook of hauteur. The secretary looked at him with
eyes that assumed a softer and more affectionate expres-
sion every moment He insisted on his taking this and
that j finally he ventured on a few familiarities, on a few
questions that might cause his young friend to issue from
his shell.
‘And what do they say at Milan he exclaimed all
of a sudden, throwing himself back in his chair and
resting his knife and fork upright in both hands on
the edge of the table. ‘What do they say at Milan
about Otto the Great?’
Noticing the guest’s surprise at the unexpected ques-
tion, he burst into a comical laugh. ‘ I am speaking of
Bismarck,’ he added, giving a full sound to the word
Bismarck, and quivering with pleasure from head to foot,
as though, in the torture of speaking Italian, those two
syllables brought him relief, and a breath of his native air.
The Prince, on that summer evening of 1864, was
yet far from success and fame ; but his compatriot spoke
of him, without expecting any response, for ten minutes
and more, impetuously, with admiration mingled with
hate and fear.
* In Europe they think he is mad,’ he concluded, ‘ but,
great heavens ! Wir hahen seeks und dreiszig Uerren^ my
dear sir. Another piece of this trout? We have six-
IN A STRANGE COUNTRY 13
and-thirty lords \ in ten years we shall see. Have you
ever tasted Johannisberg? I feel ashamed that the
finest wine in the world is made in Germany, but not
within the territones of my king. I am not a man
to put up long with such things.
‘ Oh ! ’ went on the loquacious secretary, running his
fingers through his hair and smacking his lips. ‘Oh!
the Johannisberger, oh I’ and he laughingly screwed up
his bright eyes as though he were drinking in the
longed-for nectar. ‘One knows when a bottle of
Johannisberg has been uncorked in a room. Another
glass of wine, my dear sir; allow me. It is only
Sassella and has no more bouquet than water, but
for Italian wine it is passable. You must excuse my
frank speech, but in Italy they do not understand either
making or drinking wine.’
‘ Not even drinking ? ’
‘No, not even drinking.
‘ fVemg nur vetdirbt den Mageti
Und zu viel erhitzt das HaupL
‘You understand German? No? Well, it is Goethe
who says, “A little injures the stomach, and too much
inflames the head.” The Italians either get tipsy or else
drink water. I exaggerate, my dear sir, I exaggerate.
To drink a bottle a day is like drinking water. The
most sensible people drink it for their stomachs’ sakes ;
you follow me? Nobody drinks for the sake of the
iieart, ad exhilarandum cor I You laugh? All we
Germans are, to some extent, Latinists, even the
beggars, even those hounds of princes! Now, every-
one ought to drink till they feel happy, but never till
they feel mad. Wine is perpetual youth. As long as
54
MALOMBRA
I live I wish to be twenty, for three or four hours a
<iay, but I shall never be ten ; that is the difference,’
As the limpid Sassella ran low in the bottle, the
secretary’s years shook their wings and flew away two
by two from his venerable shoulders. The latter squared
themselves boldly, rising from manhood in its decline
to manhood in its prime, which, in turn, gave place
to perfect youth. The limpid Sassella ran low, until
at length the golden age arrived, the age of impulsive
affection, of quick feeling, of blind and ready friend-
ship. The secretary held out his hands, turned his
red beard towards his temperate and taciturn companion,
caught hold of one of his hands with both his own
and pressed it warmly.
‘In the name of all that’s holy, my dear sir, have
we not broken bread and tasted wine together, and yet
we do not know each other’s name ? His lordship did
indeed tell me yours, but I have forgotten it.’
‘Corrado Silla,’ replied the young man.
‘Silla, ah, Silla. Quite so I hope you will never
place my name on your proscription lists. Andreas
Gotthold Steinegge, of Nassau, expelled from his college
for bemg too fond of wine, from his family for being
too fond of women, from his country for being too
fond of freedom. Ah< my dear Signor Silla, it was
the last passion that was the mad one. Why, I should
now be a Kammerrath at Nassau, like the late Steinegge,
my father, or a colonel like that low hound, my brother.
But liberty, die Freiheit^do you follow me ? — is a pneu-
matic word.’
At this point the secretary seized his chair rapidly
with both hands and pushed it back violently, and then
folded his arms and looked hard at Silla, who was
mystified.
IN A STRANGE COUNTRY
n
* What do you mean ? A pneumatic word ? *
‘ Ah, quite so, you don’t understand ? It is, in fact,
not altogether easy. Words are divided, my dear Signor
Silla, into algebraical words, mechanical words, and
pneumatic words. I will now explain the subject to
you as It was taught to me by a fnend of mine at
Wiesbaden, who was shot by those cursed Prussians
m 1848. The algebraical words descend from the
brain, and are signs of the equation between the sub-
ject and the object; the mechanical words are formed
by the tongue as necessary sounds in a language. But
the pneumatic words are uttered by the lungs, sound
like musical instruments, nobody knows what they
mean, and all mankind is intoxicated by them. If,
instead of ** Freiheit^^ instead of “ Liberty,” one were to
utter a word of ten syllables, how many fewer heroes,
how many fewer madmen, there would be in the world 1
Listen, my dear young friend. I am old. I am alone.
I have no money. I may die on the streets like a
dog, but if this night they were to say to me, — ‘‘ Stein-
egge, alter Kerl^ will you enter the service of the re-
actionary government to-morrow, be a Kammerrath at
Nassau, sit by your own hearth, see your daughter whom
you haven’t seen for twelve years,” I, old madman,
should reply, “No, by heaven! Viva la liberty
He brought down his fist with a great thump on the
table, panting, breathing noisily through his nose with
his mouth closed.
' Bravo r exclaimed Silla, moved despite himself. ‘I
would like to be an old madman like you.’
* Oh, no, no 1 don’t wish that I Don’t say these
things over the supper-table ! One has to learn what it
costs to cry “ Viva la Uherta / ” and how much it is worth.
OK I don’t let us speak of it.’
MALOMBRA
i6
They were both silent for a moment
‘You come from Nassau?' resumed Silla.
‘Yes, but let us avoid that subject ; it is a sad one. I
don't want sad thoughts, for I am very gay just now, very
happy, because you please me immensely ; yes, yes, yes,
yes’'
He nodded his head repeatedly, his chin touching his
breast as though he had a spring in the back of his neck ;
his eyes sparkling with laughter.
‘You will not be leaving us to-morrow?' he asked.
‘I should wish to be getting back certainly.'
‘Oh ! but his lordship will not allow you to go.'
‘Why?'
‘ Because I believe that he is kindly disposed towards
you.'
‘But he doesn't even know me.’
‘Hum 1 ha !' and Steinegge whistled softly to himself,
shutting his eyes and bending forward till his beard was
in his plate, his arms stretched out beneath the table j
his head looked hke that of a gnome.
‘Do you mean that he does know me?' inquired
Silla.
‘ I mean that he has talked to me for an hour about
you to-day.'
‘And what did he say ? '
‘ Ah r exclaimed the secretary, sitting upright in his
chair and raising his hands towards the ceiling. ‘I have
not yet reached that point, my dear sir ; I have not yet
come to that. There is room for much Sasseila between
your question and my reply.'
He caught hold of the two bottles, pretended to weigh
them, shook them and put diem down again. They were
empty,
‘There is no more friendship in them,' he said with a
IN A STRANGE COUNTRY j;
sigh, ‘nor sincerity, nor kindness. Perhaps we had
better go to bed.’
The clock at the top of the first flight of stairs between
the first floor and the second struck half-past one as
Silla entered the room assigned to him, yet he had no
desire for sleep. Upright and motionless he looked
fixedly at the flame of the candle, as though that bright
light could have cleared away the mists that dulled his
brain. Suddenly he pulled himself together, took the
candle and set out upon a voyage of discovery, which
turned out less instructive perhaps, but more thrilling,
than the famous one of Count Saverio. The room was
large, lofty, square. A heavy carved wooden bedstead ;
opposite the bed, between two large windows, a chest of
drawers with a white marble top; above this, in a gilt
frame, the reflection of a strange figure, half in light, half
in shade, moving with a candle in its hand ; an escritoire,
some big chairs and arm-chairs ; these were the only
objects that showed up out of the darkness beneath the
inquisitive light which ran along the walls, now ascending,
now descending, now in curves, in zig-zags, like the un-
certain light of a will o’ the wisp. At the top of the bed
hung an admirable painting, the head of an angel pray-
ing, after the school of Guercino. The expression was
that of complete abandonment ; in the half-closed mouth,
the dilated nostrils, the almost passionate glance, could
be seen the movement of intense supplication. One
would have said that those pillows were accustomed to
support the heads of great sinners, and that during the
hours of slumber, when sinful schemes and actions are
for the time laid aside, a spirit of mercy lifted its voice
in prayer to God for them. The light from Silla’s candle
appeared fascinated by that picture. It left it suddenly,
but only to stop again and turn back to it, passing over
MALOMBRA
its surface from top to bottom, from right to left. Then
the light slowly passed on and took its original course, as
though its path had remained traced in mid-air, following
the same curves, falling and rising as before. This time,
however, it found something changed. As the light fell
upon the gilded frame above the chest of drawers, the
same figure was reflected, half in light, half in shade, but
its expression was no longer that of curiosity, but rather
of emotion and amazement. If indeed that mirror had
been able to preserve the reflections thrown from it in
the course of its vain and sterile existence, among others
would have appeared the sad face of a woman, the merry
one of a boy, strongly resembling each other in their
features and in the expression of the eyes. Just as in
some quiet lake the mountains see their reflection smiling
back at them in the morning light, and then the mists
enwrap them and blur their outline so that the watery
mirror appears turned to lead ; and then again the veil is
lifted and the brown mountain sides are once more re-
flected; so similarly there appeared once more in the
faithful mirror, after many years, the reflected portrait of
the youth, changed to the thoughtful features of a man.
Silla turned round and approached the bed, trembling,
looked at it for a long time, put down the candle, joined
his hands, and bent down and kissed the cold and shin-
ing wood. Then, rising up, he went out with hasty
strides on to the staircase, leaving the candle behind him.
A blind instinct led him to go in search of the Count,
to speak to him at once. But the house was dark and
silent, nothing was to be heard but the ticking of the
clock. Steinegge was safe in bed ; and, after ail, could
he have answered his question? Siila returned slowly
to his room. Against the light of the candle placed on
the floor on the other side of it, the bed stood out like a
IN A STRANGE COUNTRY
19
huge black cube. Had anyone been sleeping there one
would not have seen him ; and Siila^s imagination easily
conjured up a woman’s form that once had rested there,
saw her lying there ill, shrinking from the weird light,
motionless, perchance, but still alive. He approached
the bed on tip-toe, and flung himself upon it with arms
outstretched.
She was sleeping elsewhere, that pure and noble
mother, in a narrower chamber, upon a colder bed, and
yet he seemed to feel her presence still ; his childhood
returned and made his heart feel young, bringing a flood
of memories of his mother’s room and of the bed, the
scent of a favourite box of sandalwood, little things his
mother had said to him, many different aspects of that
vanished face. When he got up and, holding up the
candle, looked about him, he could not understand how
he had failed to at once recognise the picture, the chairs,
the mirror, which now all looked down upon him as
though reproaching him with his forgetfulness.
How came it to pass, thought Silla, how came it to
pass that the furniture of his mother’s room was there in
an unknown house belonging to a man whose face he
had never seen, whose name he had not even heard
uttered ? Some things had indeed been sold some years
previous to his mother’s death, and perhaps they had
come into Count d’Ormengo’s possession by chance.
By chance ? Ah, no, it was not possible.
He sat down at the escritoire, took out a large square
envelope from his pocket-book, read the letter, re-read it
with feverish attention. It ran as follows : —
* R j iQiJi Atignst 1861.
‘ My Dear Sir, — We have never met, and you m all
probability have never heard my name, although it is
20
MALOMBRA
that of an old Italian family which has ever borne it, at
home and abroad, on foot and on horseback, as it should
be borne. It is necessary, to come to the point, for your
sake and for mine, that we should meet. As I am fifty-
nine you will come to me.
* You will find a chaise waiting for you the evening of
the day after to-morrow at Station on the Milan-
Camerlata line ; and you will find at my house the un-
ceremonious hospitality which I practise towards my
friends, who on their part are good enough to respect
my peculiarities. Allow me to mention that among these
is the habit of opening the window if a chimney smokes
in my house, and of opening, if a man smokes, the door.
I await you, my dear sir, in my hermitage,
‘Cesare d’Ormengo.’
That was all. He knew the letter by heart, but had
some idea of reading between the lines, of discovering
some double entendre. Nothing of the kind ; or rather,
the mystery was there, but was one too deep for hand or
eye to fathom. Was he friend or foe, this man who
silently placed before him the memories of his mother
and of his happy childhood ?
No foe. He wrote with the rough frankness of a noble-
man of the old school ; the large letters, leaning over as
in the impetus of a race, breathed sincerity. His hospi-
tality was certainly unceremonious ; not to show himself
even. The more reason for believing in the cordial terms
of the invitation. Eccentric, in short, but benevolent.
And what reason can he have had for collecting those
objects and putting them in his house so many years ag<i,
and for now summoning Silla to a conference? Silla
had never heard his name mentioned either by his
mother or his father, or anyone else. He let the letter
m A STRANGE COUNTRY
21
fall, and covered his face with his hands. A glimmering
of light flashed across his mind, perhaps a glimmering of
the truth. That furniture had been sold the day after
the financial crash ; a number of plunderers, Silla remem-
bered in a confused kind of way, had descended upon
the house to enforce their own claims, or those of power-
ful creditors, who kept in the background, so as to pose
as friends of the family, or from less dishonourable
motives ; and in addition to the realisation of house and
land, pictures and furniture of great value had been
carried off, fetching next to nothing, stolen as it were in
a kind of indecent scramble. Count d^Ormengo, per-
haps, as one of the creditors, had profited unduly by the
zeal of some unscrupulous agent, and was now anxious to
square accounts with his own conscience. Possibly
somebody had informed him that Silla was out of work
and living in poverty. This had led the Count to take
the initiative, to speak of something being necessary for
both of them, alluding in the opening words of his letter
to the family honour; and to give his guest this par-
ticular room was a way of breaking the ice before meet-
ing face to face. The dull sound of footsteps overhead
roused Silla. He listened awhile and thought he heard
a window open. His own room had two ; he hesitated
a moment, and then resolutely opened one.
Pie remained in astonishment with his hand on the
window. The sky was clear as crystal. The crescent
moon rose on the left above lofty mountains, shedding a
feeble light over a big grey wall that ran along beside his
window, and over the severe outlines of other windows
of the castle; the big wall rose straight up out of the
bright surface of a clear stretch of water lying towards
low hills in the west, while the other side of the lake
was in deep shadow. The rustling of invisible leaves was
23
MALOMBI^A
heard hard by, the wind whispered softly as it rippled
over the water and died away in the distance,
^How do you like it?’ said a voice from the floor
above, a little to the right of Silla’s room. * A little Fok/i^
a little Fohn,^ The voice was Steinegge’s, who, leaning
out of a window, was smoking like a chimney. The
Count must have been sleeping soundly a good distance
away for his secretary to venture to talk so loud, in spite
of the silence of the night and the sonorous echo from
the lake beneath them. He hastened to inform Silla
that he had served on a galley at Constantinople as a
result of political troubles, and that the abominable
Turkish sentries broke his sleep every two hours with
their fantastic cry of Allah-al-allah I From that time
he had retained the habit of waking up every two hours
every night of his life. He used to go to the window m his
nightshirt and smoke; if the Count knew of it there
would be trouble 1 When he was serving as captain in
the Austrian Hussars, before 1848, he had been accus-
tomed to smoke as many as eighteen Virginians a day ;
since that time he had gone many a day without food,
without tobacco never * The Count’s rkgime did not
agree with him, it acted on his nerves.
‘Might I ask you,’ rejoined Silla, interrupting these
reminiscences, ‘ whether you can tell me why the Count
has sent for me.’
‘ May I go back to the Turkish galleys if I have the
faintest idea. I know that his lordship knew you ; that
is all.’
Silla relapsed into silence.
*Aaah! Aaah! Aaah!’ yawned Steinegge, in a cloud
of smoke and geniality.
‘ What lake is this ? ’ asked Silla.
‘You don’t know? You have never seen it? I be*
IN A STRANGE COUNTRY
23
lieve that many Italians are quite ignorant of its existence,
and it is curious that I should have to tell you about it.’
‘Well?’
‘ Oh, the devil.’
A shadow that passed rapidly across the water in the
direction of the castle drew this exclamation from Stein-
egge, who was only just in time to throw away his cigar
and to close the window. A falling star passed Silla, the
windows above were slammed to, the leaves rustled behind
the castle. Steinegge, feanng that he had allowed a puff
of smoke to enter the room, and sniffing at the faithless
air, turned into bed, to dream that as he left the Turkish
galley the padischah smilingly offered him the Imperial
pipe, filled with good Smyrna tobacco.
Silla remained long at the window. The clear night,
the fresh breeze, the sweet scent from the mountains did
him good, restored calmness to his thoughts and peace
to his heart. He was hardly conscious of the flight of
the hours as he followed absently, and yet with attention,
the mad pranks of the wind upon the lake, the murmurs
of the night, the whispering of the leaves, the calm pro-
gress of the silvery moon. He heard a deep-tongued
bell strike the hour in the distance. Two o’clock or
three ? He hardly knew, as he got up with a sigh and
closed the window. For he felt that he ought to go to
bed and get some rest, so as to have a clear brain on the
morrow for his interview with the Count. But sleep did
not come. He lighted a candle and walked about the
room ; but it was of no avail He set himself to seek
memories and thoughts far from his present anxieties,
and at length he seemed to have found something, for he
sat down at the escritoire and, after lengthy reflection
composed, with a hundred pauses and interruptions, the
following letter to Cecilia ; —
H
MALOMBRA
'It was to my book, A Dreamy that I owed the
pleasure and the honour of your first letter. While I was
replying to it I indeed dreamt a dream, another and a
better and a nobler dream than the dream of my story
Shall I tell it][to you ? No, for you would only smile \ and
the pseudonym which stands on the frontispiece of that
book and at the foot of this letter covers an individuality
not wanting in self-respect Your second letter reached
me, and, like many other illusions which have tempted,
and then mocked at, my youth, that dream also vanished,
and life lies stretched out before me a barren, painful
path. We can have no sympathies in common, and we
therefore say farewell. You disguised in your elegant
domino “Cecilia,^’ I retiring behind my “Lorenzo,^'
which you condemn as vulgar, but which is dear to me
because it was once borne, some fifty years ago, by a
great poet whom I revere. For my part, no curiosity
mil ever urge me to seek to know your real name. I shall
be grateful if you will abstain from inquiries as to mine.
‘When you wrote to me asking for my opinion on the
subject of free-will and on the transmigration of souls, I
imagined that none but a woman of wide sympathies
could occupy herself with problems so far above the ac-
customed pursuits of the fashionable herd. It seems to
me that your wish was no passing fancy of an idle mind
which, between one pleasure and another, perchance be-
tween one love aifair and another, peeps in to see what he
is doing who thinks, studies, and toils ; and, as a matter
of caprice, would wish to taste the strong bitter potion
distilled by philosophy and science. I conjectured,
even, that some event in your past life, as to which
you were silent, had caused you to doubt, and cast
across your soul the shadow of those mysteries in re-
gard to which you invoked my judgment. I replied, I
IN A STRANGE COUNTRY 25
must confess, with foolish enthusiasm, with an ingenu-
ousness of expression which must appear in the worst
possible taste to your false world (pardon the frank speech
of a masquerader who has no wish to give offence) — to your
false world where the women seek to hide their wrinkles
and the men their youth. I have, in fact, behaved like an
ill-bred bourgeois who calmly attempts to shake hands
with a noble lady to whom he has not been introduced-
You withdraw your hand, and assail me with a cloud of
barbed arrows which sting though they do not wound,
and lash me with your pungent sarcasm, the intel-
lectual armoury of people refined up to the utmost hmit
of sprightly subtlety; just as certain delicate creatures
live entirely on sweets. I appreciate, I do not esteem,
such wit ; wit i la Franfaise, sceptical and false. I see an
image of it now in the mirror of the water which,
rising and falling beneath the moonlight, converts the
soft rays into an empty shimmer, and fugitive specks
of light.
‘ Your sarcasms do not hurt me, I am cynical ; I have
seen women who have fallen in love, perhaps after struggl-
ing against it, who defended themselves in this way, as
little captive birds do with their harmless beaks. No,
what attracted me was not the prospect of a flirtation at a
bal masqu'e^ but the hope of a serious confidential corre-
spondence with an enthusiast for the same lofty themes
which fascinate my own soul I had intended to close
this correspondence ; and you must attribute this letter
to an attack of insomnia, from which, and from some
other troubles, the writing of it helps to divert me.
Whether we ever met in a previous existence I do
not remember ; nor do I know what brilliant star will
be worthy to receive you when you have quitted this
bourgeois planet of ours, this low, scandal-loving earth, on
26
MALOMBRA
which, for a goddess, there is no suitable resting-place \
but — ’
Whether it was that at this point the candle began to
go out, or that drowsiness at last settled on his brain,
when morning broke Silla was sleeping at the table, and
in the middle of the sheet of paper, like a weapon blunted
as it was about to strike, stood the ambiguous mono-
syllable — ‘ but’
CHAPTER II
THE CASTLE
‘This way, sir,’ said the servant whom Silla was follow-
ing, ‘ his lordship is in the library/
* Is that the door ? ’
‘Yes, sir/
Silla paused to read the following words, a free quota-
tion from the prophet Hosea, inscribed on a marble
tablet above the door :
* Loquar ad cor ejus in soUtudinQ^
The poetical words breathed affection, yet the marble
clothed them in a certain austere solemnity. The vague-
ness of the language, the giave rigidity of the lifeless
Latin forms combined to produce a sense of something
superhuman. As Silla read, he felt his sense of rever-
ence touched by the solemn phrase.
The serv^ant opened the door, and with a loud voice
announced the visitor.
‘ Signor Silla.’
The latter, not a little agitated, entered hurriedly.
Many learned book-collectors know the castle library ;
a large room, almost square, lighted by two fine windows
in the west wall facing the lake, and by a glass door
which opens into a little garden laid out on the stone
27
28
MALOMBJ^A
terrace above the boat-house. A large, old-fashioned
fireplace and mantel of black marble, ornamented with
cupids and arabesques in stucco, face the windows;
while a huge bronze lamp hangs from the ceiling, above a
round table which is usually piled up with magazines and
books. The most striking piece of furniture in the room
is a tall eight-day clock, a chef d^cBuvre of the eighteenth
century, which stands between the two windows. The
case, carved in semi-relief, displays allegorical scenes
representing the Seasons linked between two figures of
Fame, the one flying and sounding a clarion, the other
with drooping wings and trumpet falling to the ground.
The quadrant is upheld by graceful, dancing figures,
the Hours ; and above them a little winged figure takes
its flight, with, at its feet, the word
I know not whether the noble family into whose
possession the castle passed a few months ago has left
the library intact ; but at the time of my story the walls
were concealed by lofty bookcases. The books were the
result of accumulations by generations of country gentle-
men of widely different opinions and tastes. The result-
ing contradictions were recorded in those shelves, and
certain classes of books appeared astonished at having
survived their collectors. Not a single work on chemistry
was to be found among the numerous volumes of meta-
physics, both by foreign and native authors ; but behind
works on religious discipline and theology lurked novels
of the lightest order. The library owes its fame to the
noble editions of the classics, and to a copious collection
of the Italian Romanticists, and of works on mathematics
and tactics, all previous to 1800. Count Caesar ransacked
the classics; sent the philosophers and theologians, in
his own phrase, heavenwards, and kept the historians
and moralists near him. The novelists and the poets*
THE CASTLE
29
Dante and Alfieri excepted, were thrown into a big box
and deposited in a mouldy warehouse. The empty
shelves were filled by foreign works, mostly of English
origin, dealing with history, politics and statistics. Not
a single volume found admission, under the Counfs
rtgi7ne, which dealt with literature, art, philosophy or poli-
tical econony; and, as he was ignorant of German,
Teutonic authors were excluded.
The owner of the library was there, seated at the table,
a long, thin figure clothed in black. He rose as Silla
entered, and came to greet him, speaking with a strongly
marked Piedmontese accent.
‘ You are Signor Corrado Silla.’
*Yes, Count’
‘ I am greatly obliged to you for coming to visit me.’
His voice was soft and gentle, and he pressed the
young man’s hand warmly.
* I presume,’ he resumed, ‘that you were surprised not
to see me yesterday.’
‘Some other things surprised me,’ replied his guest,
‘ but — ’
The Count chimed in with ‘ Enough, enough. I am
glad to hear you say that, for it is only fools and
swindlers who are never surprised at anything. My
secretary no doubt informed you, either in German or
Italian, that I always go to bed before ten o’clock. The
habit strikes you as strange? Perhaps it is, for I have
observed the custom for five-and-twenty years. And
how did that rascally cardriver treat you ? ’
‘ He drove very well’
The Count motioned Silla to a chair and sat down
himself, and continued, —
‘ And now, would you like to know to what place he
drove you ? ’
30
MALOMBEA
‘It is not unnaturaV said Silla, and relapsed into
silence.
‘Oh, I sympathise with your feelings, but with your
permission I will postpone the subject till this evening.
Till then, favour me by being a friend who comes to see
me in the plenitude of his leisure, or a literary man who
is inclined to dip into my books and test the capacities
of my chef, I can hardly broach business with a guest
who has only just crossed my threshold. This evening
we will have a chat. I fancy that you will not find your-
self so uncomfortable here that I shall not be able to
induce you to stay on a little longer ’
‘ On the contrary,’ replied Silla, impetuously ; ‘ but I
think you might perhaps tell me — ^
* Tell you about a little surprise which you found on
your arrival ? Perhaps, indeed, I do owe you something
on that score ; and I can only appeal to your courtesy
and ask you to reserve the subject till this evening. In
the meantime, if you will come with me I wall show you my
castle, as those clowns of peasants call it. They might
leave to our glorious modern civilisation the habit of
calling very small things by very big names! My
house, he added, rising to his feet, is a shell — a shell
which has been mhabited by many shell-fish of diverse
temperaments. The tastes of the first seem to have
been somewhat ambitious , you may notice that he has
adorned the outer shell of his dwelling regardless of
expense. None of his successors had epicurean tastes,
for which, indeed, a shell is hardly adapted. For myself,
I have the misanthropic temperament, and allow my
habitation to get grimier every day.’
Silla did not insist, he felt the influence of a stronger
will. The Count, tall and incredibly thin, with his fine
head and rough shock of white hair, and his stern eyes
THE CASTLE
31
and rugged features, his olive complexion and clean
shaven face, was a striking figure. In his deep bass
voice could be discerned rich capacities for love and
hate. His voice vibrated with passion, throwing a
wealth of life and originality into the most common-
place phrases ; its tones came up direct from the cavi-
ties of a large heart, of a chest of bronze, in contradis-
tinction to certain thin acid voices that seem to dis-
charge their notes only from the tongue
He was dressed in a long frock coat, cut clumsily
about the wrists, from which issued two fine white hands.
He wore an old-fashioned black cravat
‘ First of alV he said, pointing to his books, * allow me
to present you to the friends in whose society I pass
much of my time. Some of them are excellent people,
some of them are scoundrels, a large majority are im-
beciles, and these I have sent, being a good Christian, as
near to heaven as I could. Among them are poets,
romanticists and savants. I need not scruple to say this,
although you are somewhat of a literary man, for I made
the same remark to D’Azeglio, who, with all his scribbl
ing propensities, has a good deal of common sense, and
it set him laughing. The theologians are represented
too. Those white Dominicans come to me from my
great-uncle, a bishop of Novara, who had plenty of time
to waste. As for my own friends, they are all close at hand,
and I trust you will make their acquaintance. In the
meantime, let us take a turn, if you are so inclined.*
The castle stood at the entrance to a retired valley
where the lake of hides itself between two wooded
hills. Built in the style of the eighteenth century, it
faces the south with its left wing, and the east with its
right one. Two arcades, the one of five arches on the
side of the lake, and the other of three arches towards
32
MALOMBRA
the mountains, run obliquely between the two wings at
the height of the first floor, and join them in a point
resting upon a huge mass of black stone projecting above
the Me. The tools of the gardener have cut in the
hard rock a shallow bed in which compost has been
laid, and here purslains, verbenas and petunias bloom
in careless splendour. The wing which contains the
library, built perhaps as a summer resort, throws its
grave reflection in the waters of the bay. In front of
it is a solitary hill-side covered with hazel trees and
hombeans ; on the right is a spacious and fertile valley,
into which the overflow of the lake escapes ; behind the
castle roof appear vines and cypresses, as though peep-
ing over into the green waters of the lake, which is here
so clear that when the mid-day sun strikes down in
summer full upon it, the eye can see far down among
the motionless water-weeds, and catch now and again the
passing shadow of a fish moving slowly above the yellow
pebbles.
The left wing commands the open lake, mountains in
front, mountains in the east; in the west, towards the
plains, a background of hills and, between, cultivated
fields divided by rows of poplars. Between the east and
south the lake winds round behind a promontory, a tall,
reddish rock, and there hides the waters of its smaller
and shallower end. The lake is a small one, small in
size and in renown, yet ambitious and proud, proud of
its crown of mountain summits. Full of passion, full
of change; now violet, now green, now leaden; some-
times, as It nears the plains, even blue. There it breaks
into a laugh, and reflects the rich colouring of the clouds
glowing in the setting sun, or becomes one bright sheet
of flame when the south wind ripples across it beneath
the mid-day glare of July. On all other sides extend the
THE CASTLE
33
mountains, wooded to the summit, with here and there
a dusky heap of rock or a bright emerald patch of
pasture. Towards the east the lake is bounded by
a valley, and the hills there ascend terrace-like to-
wards the Alpe dei Fiori, distant rocky summits which
cut the sky line with their jagged tops. Down that
valley, not far distant from the lake, one sees a little
village church, and on the opposite side, on the brow
of the hill, that slopes down gently to the meadows,
the white roof of a bell-tower peeps up from amid
the walnut trees.
Where the castle abuts on the mountain sides pick-
axe and mattock have vigorously assailed the rock, and
have wrested space for the little semi-circular court
where a sparkling fountain plays ; its waters falling back
again among the graceful geraniums and the broad leaves
of the arums. Two large oval beds of flowers and foliage
plants flank it on either side. Beyond them are fine
white sandy paths. Along the walls that touch the
mountain sides wind the thousand tendrils of the Vir-
ginian creepers and jessamine, tender plants which seek
on all sides for a support, and when they have found
one, clothe it, as though in gratitude, with beauty.
Opposite the centre of the main wall of the castle and
facing the loggia, between the south and east wings,
broad stone flights of steps have been built up the
hill side, flanked on either hand by huge cypresses and
by marble statues. On the right and left, serried lines
of vines stretch away into the distance, marshalled
like regiments on parade. Some of the cypresses
have lost their top branches, and show the black scars
left by lightning, but most of them are intact, noble
in their ancient grandeur. They look like huge
giants striding slowly down the hill to bathe in the
c
34
MALOMBRA
lake below; while all nature around them looks on
in silent wonder.
Of the statues, but nine or ten still grace their pedes-
tals, and they are closely veiled in twining ivy. Their
bare arms emerge, like those of threatening Sibyls, or
rather of nymphs overcome and turned to stone by some
strange metamorphosis. In sympathy with this idea,
the gardener’s son would often place in their hands
bunches of leaves and flowers. At the summit of the
stone staircase is a large reservoir formed of elegant
grey stonework, with mosaic in white, red and black,
divided into five arches corresponding to as many niches,
each containing a marble vase. In the centre a nude
figure of a Naiad turns over her vase with her foot, and
there flows thence a stream of water which descends by
a hidden conduit, and reappears in the fountain among
the flowers in the court. On the pedestal of the statue
are inscribed the famous words of Heraclitus : IIANTA
PEEI.
From the balcony, which is placed at the east end of
the castle, one emerges into a little garden on the stone
terrace, which is shaded almost entirely from the noon-
day sun by the foliage of a superb magnolia. An open
flight of steps leads from this garden down to a point
near the little door of the boat-house, and to one of the
outer gates. From here a rough track leads to the
village of R — .
At the other end of the castle a solid balustrade is
supported by pillars, which in turn rest on the rocks
which lurk like monsters of the deep beneath the lake.
Behind the balustrade is a broad drive, on the other
side of which are flower beds, bright with foliage plants
and flowers. In the summer time, great pots of lemon
trees stand on the balustrade and are reflected in the
THE CASTLE
35
clear waters of the lake. At the bottom of the drive
the outer wall of the park is concealed by a little belt
of pine trees, which wind along with it, like a black
velvet ribbon, up the hillside, twining around the
gardener’s cottage near an iron gate, through which,
by a steep pathway known to him, the high road may
be reached.
With its cypresses, its vineyards, its belt of pine
trees, and with the lake lying at its feet, the castle
would make a pleasing photograph enough if science
could reproduce the varying shades of dull and bright
green, the transparent waters of the lake, and the re-
flection of the sun as it plays on the old walls. One
could then imagine, stretched out before its windows, a
broad expanse of lake, smiling villages, gardens bright
with flowers But, viewed even in its severe solitude,
the castle is not gloomy. Outside the castle precincts,
that part of the estate which faces south is green with
olive trees, and its aspect speaks to the mildness of the
winters. Through the open portals of the great gate
that looks across the plains m the west, one’s eye and
one’s imagination wander freely; one conjures up the
image, one almost thinks one hears the hum, of the
busy human life beyond. The castle dominates that
isolated site in aristocratic grandeur; its owner may
well think himself lord of all he surveys; deem him-
self a king to v/hom none dares draw near, the
mountains defending his throne, and the waves lapping
its feet.
‘ They say,’ said the Count, as he entered the loggia
with Silla, * that the view from this point is not bad, and
I confess myself I have seen worse.’ Then pointing to a
tablet above the middle arch of the loggia, he added,
‘ Read that,’ and Silla read as follows
36
MALOMBRA
Emanuel de Ormengo
TRIBUNATU MILITARI APUD SABAUDOS FUNCTUS
MATERNO IN AGRO
DOMUM
MAGNO AQUARUM ATQDE MONTIUM SILENTIO CIRCUMFUSAM
iEDIFICAVIT
UT SE FESSUM BELLO
POTENTIUM INGRATITUDINE LABORANTEM
HUC
VESPERASCENTE VITA RECIPERET
Al’QUE NEPOTES
IN PARI FORTUNA
. PARI OBLIVIONS ^
FRUERENTUR
MDCCVII.
‘Ah r exclaimed the Count, standing behind Silla, his
legs apart and his hands clasped behind him. ‘My
worthy ancestor experienced royal favour and repudiated
it, as you see. It is for this reason that I myself would
have none of it, and I would never serve a king unless I
had to choose between him and our canaille of a demo-
cracy. That ancestor of mine was a man of iron. Only
kings and democracies would bieak and throw away a
similar instrument. Ugh 1 Perhaps you do not believe me ? '
*I am devoted to my king,^ leplied the young man,
with some emotion. ‘ I have fought for him and for Italy.'
* Ah ! for Italy ! Nothing could be better. But you
speak of the passing conditions of the present day, while
I refer to institutions that are judged by the testimony of
centuries. My own secretary is a democrat, and I have
a high opinion of him, for he is the best and most honest
creature in the world. For the rest, if you have an ideal
I am the last person to wish to destroy it, for without arf
ideal all feeling is merged in sensuality.'
‘And your own ideal ? ' rejoined Silla.
THE CASTLE
37
* Mine ? Look around you.’
The Count stepped up to the parapet above the lake.
* You see where I have chosen my home, among the
noblest natural surroundings, amidst a magnificent aristo-
cracy, not wealthy indeed, but powerful. Its view is
wide, it defends the plains, husbands the forces of the
industrial life of the district, distributes pure and life-
giving air, and takes nothing in return for all these
benefits except its own majestic grandeur. Possibly you
understand what is my political ideal and why I live far
from the world ; respullica mea non est de hoc mundo.
Let us be going.’
The Count was an excellent guide, drawing Silla’s
attention to every object of interest and explaining the
ideas of the iron ancestor who had built the castle as
though they had originated in his own brain. The old
soldier had done things en grand seigneur, A wing of
the castle for winter, another for summer, three storeys
to each. Kitchens, pantnes, offices, servants’ rooms ; a
grand staircase in the west wing ; noble reception rooms
on the first floor. Frescoes adorned these, painted in
fantastic confusion by an unknown artist who had heaped
together architecture of the Renaissance, loggias, terraces
and obelisks, and fantastical scenes depicting cavalry
skirmishes, in which the drawing was incorrect and
violated nearly all the maxims of Leonardo da Vind, but
which were not devoid of vigour.
* I understand from my fiiends,’ said the Count, show-
ing them to Silla, ‘ that the good man who painted these
was a stupid fellow ; some even go so far as to call him a
cow. I know nothing about these things, but I am glad
to hear it ; for the artists are no favourites of mine.’
It was true enough, he neither liked artists nor under-
stood them. He had a large collection of pictures, the
38
MALOMBRA
best of which were collected by his mother, ft'ee the
Marchioness B of Florence, who was passionately
fond of art. The Count was absolutely ignorant of the
subject, and used to terrify his friends by calmly uttering
the most heretical opinions whenever he spoke of it. He
would gladly have turned face to the wall a portrait by
Raphael, or have thrown a Titian on the rubbish-heap.
He regarded them only as so much dirty canvas, and
would not have concealed his opinion for any considera-
tion whatever. The earliest masters were less distasteful
to him, because he found them more archaic and less
artistic ; less artistic and therefore better citizens.
At the same time he could give no reason for this
opinion. Landscape painting was his special aversion ;
he regarded it as a sign of social decadence, an art
inspired by scepticism, by a repudiation of social duties
and a kind of sentimental materialism. He was not the
man to part with his mother’s favourite pictures, but he
kept them prisoner in a long passage on the second floor,
on the north side above the dining-room.
In entering this corridor by one end it seemed to
Silla that someone beat a hasty retreat through the door
at the other, and he noticed that his companion’s eyes
flashed. The three windows of the gallery were wide
open, but could that perfume of ‘ mown-hay scent ’ come
through the open windows ?
One of the old leather high-backed chairs that were
ranged at equal intervals along the walls of the gallery,
and gave to it an air of almost episcopal dignity, had
been dragged alongside the window in the middle and
placed facing a Canaletto of marvellous beauty. On the
window ledge lay an open book, much dog-eared but
perfectly clean and white.
^You see,’ said the Count, calmly closing the first of
THE CASTLE
39
the three windows, *I have here some extraordinary
possessions. Mountains, woods, plains, rivers, lakes,
and even a fair collection of seas.’
‘ But they are treasures ! ’ exclaimed Silla.
* Ah ’ the canvas is very old, and of the poorest
quality.’
With this remark the Count replaced the high-backed
chair in its proper place.
‘ How can you talk of canvas? Now take this Vene-
tian subject for example.’
‘ I don’t even care for Venice, although I am told that
it is highly valued. Think of that • ’
He took up the book which was on the ledge of the
second window, closed the volume, glanced at the
frontispiece and, as though he were doing the most
natural thing in the world, threw it out into the court-
yard and shut the window. A heavy crash followed,
with the noise of broken panes, and a hail of bits of
glass falling on the gravel. The Count turned to
Silla, continuing his conversation as though nothing
had happened.
* I have ever held in detestation that garish, reeking,
ragged city of Venice, which is dropping, piecemeal,
her greasy courtesan’s cloak, and begins to show some
half-soiled linen, and a shrivelled, dirty skin. You say to
yourself, this man is a coarse fellow. Do you not?
Yes, others have intimated to me the same thing. And
naturally. But remember that I am a great admirer of
the old Venetians, that I have relations at Venice, and a
dash of Venetian blood in my veins, and that of the
best. I am a man of plain speech, of a school new to
Italy, where. Heaven knows, there is no lack of sensuous
fools. Where will you find an educated Italian who will
talk to you of art in the way that I have done ? The
40
MALOMBRA
large majority know nothing whatever about it, but they
take good care not to confess the fact. It is cunous to
stand and listen to a group of these fools and hypocrites
in front of a picture or a statue, and to watch their
desperate exertions in expressing admiration, each one
believing that he has to deal with connoisseurs. If they
could all simultaneously remove their masks, what a
shout of laughter you would hear.’
He stepped up to the third window and called out,
* Enrico.’
An almost child-like voice replied, —
* I am coming, sir.’
The Count waited a moment, and then added, —
‘ Bring me up that book.’
Then he shut the window.
Silla could not tear himself away from the pictures.
‘ I could stay here all day,’ he said.
* What ! even you ? ’
Who was the other person who came here ? Perhaps
the young lady of whom the driver had spoken to him ?
Did the arm-chair out of its place, the book, the scent of
‘ mown-hay,’ testify to her recent presence ? That hurried
closing of the door, that flash of anger in the eyes of
the Count?
Up to this moment Silla had only seen the Count,
Steinegge and the servants. Nobody had even men-
tioned other inmates of the castle.
A few hours later, after having gone all over the
garden and the castle without meeting anyone, he retired
to his room to dress, and as he went into the dining-
room with the Count and Steinegge, he observed that
four covers were laid, one at each side of the table.
The guests of the north, south and west took their
places; but the unknown one of the east failed to appear.
THE CASTLE
41
The Count left the room, but returned after ten minutes
and ordered the cover to be removed.
‘ I had hoped,’ he said, turning to Silla ‘ to introduce
you to my niece, but it would seem that she is feeling
indisposed.’
Silia expressed regret; Steinegge, more formal than
ever, went on eating, keeping his eyes fixed on his plate ;
the Count looked very glum, and even the butler wore
a mysterious expression. All through dinner the only
sounds in the cool, shaded, room were the obsequious
tread of the butler and the clinking of plates and glasses,
which resounded among the echoes of the roof. Through
the half-open windows was heard the noisy chirp of
many grasshoppers ; one saw the glint of sunlight falling
on the green leaves of the vines, and the changing hue
of the grass as it bent hither and thither before the
breeze. The prospect outside was more cheerful than
that withia
CHAPTER III
PHANTOMS OF THE PAST
The sun had set and the grasshoppers had ceased to
chirp. The wooded hillside facing the library stood out
111 dark outline against the clear, orange-coloured sky,
from which a last warm ray of light fell on the marble
floor near the windows, and outside on the clear brown
leaves of the magnolia, and on the gravel of the little
garden. Through the open window came the fresh air
from the valley and the twittering of the sparrows in the
cypresses.
The Count, seated at his usual place, had his elbows
resting on the table and his face covered in his hands.
Silla, sitting opposite to him, was waiting for him to
speak.
But the Count seemed to be turned to stone; he
neither spoke nor moved. Now and then he gave a
sign of life when he raised his eight thin, nervous, fingers
fiom his forehead, stretched them out, then again clasped
his brow as though he wished to press them into the
bone.
Silla watched a httle shadow flitting across the floor,
the shadow of a sparrow which could not find its way
out, and was dashing itself wildly hither and thither,
along the bookshelves and acrossHhe ceiling.
42
PHANTOMS OF THE PAST 43
Behind the stern brow of the old nobleman there was
a wild flood of thoughts which could not find their way
out. It was the hour which brings unrest to the heart ;
that hour in which the light that guides us fails, and
things corporeal and intellectual feel themselves free,
as it were, from a vigilance that has become wearisome.
Hills seem to leisurely lay themselves down flat upon the
plain, fields spread themselves over villages and dwellings,
the shadows take form and shape, human forms disappear
in mist. In the heart of man, the impressions, the
thoughts, the present, sink into oblivion, and are replaced
by a confused upward movement of distant memories, of
phantoms that move our pity, and lead us to sigh in
secret.
Presently, with a sudden movement, the Count raised
his face and said, —
‘ Signor Silla ’ ’
Then after a moment’s silence he slowly resumed, —
‘ When you read my letter, the name which you found
subscribed to it was unknown to you ? ’
' Quite unknown,’
‘ There was in your mind not even the faintest memory
of this name ? ’
‘ Not the faintest.’
‘Among those who brought you up, did you never
hear any mention made of one who would be in a
position to assist you should you find yourself m diffi-
culty ? ’
‘No. Who is supposed to have spoken to me in this
way?’
The Count hesitated a moment, and then repeated, in a
low voice, —
‘ Those who brought you up.’
‘ Never I ’
44
MALOMJBRA
* At least you will remember that you have seen my
face before ? ’
Silk was taken aback by the manner in which the
Count persisted, but simply replied, —
‘ I have no such recollection.’
‘Well,’ rejoined the Count, ‘one day, nineteen years
ago, a day in which you had been punished severely for
breaking a vase that stood in a dark room where you had
been locked up, you then saw me for an instant.’
Silk jumped to his feet ; the Count rose also, and after
a moment’s silence, walked round the table and stood
near his interlocutor, placing himself sideways to the
dying glow of the setting sun.
‘ Do you remember now?’ he asked.
Silk replied in confusion that he did not remember
seeing the Count, but he did remember breaking the vase,
and then, after his punishment, seeking refuge in his
mother’s room.
‘ You see that I have known you for a long time. You
must feel that And now I am going to tell you what I
know about you.’
The Count set to work to walk up and down as he
talked. His deep voice went rising and falling among
the dark shadows of the room, his strange figure was now
in light, now in shade, as he crossed before the windows
and then passed on.
‘You were born at Milan, in the Via del Monte di
Piet^ in 1834. Your mother brought you up, your
father gave you a silver cradle and^ a maid who passed
in the world as your nurse. This woman died soon after
leaving your service. You disliked her cordially. Did
you not?’
‘ I don’t remember. They have told me so. I heard
it more than once from my mother.’
PHANTOMS OF THE PAST
45
*No doubt Do you wish to know how far back your
memory goes ? You were five years old. You had been
put to bed an hour earlier than usual. During the day
there had been an unwonted bustle among the servants,
and much going and coming of carpenters and the like,
with an immense accumulation of confectionery and
flowers. Late that night you were awakened by the
strains of music. Then the door of your room opened.
Your mother came in, bent over you, kissed you.'
‘ My lord 1 ' exclaimed Silla, in a hoarse voice, ‘ how do
you come to know all these things ? '
‘Some years later,' resumed the deep voice of the
Count, without further explanation, ‘when you were
thirteen, that is to say in 1847, something unusual
occurred in your household.'
The deep voice relapsed into silence, the Count stood
still some distance off, near the door leading into the
little garden.
‘ Is that not so ? ' he asked.
Silla made no reply.
The Count resumed his walk.
‘Perhaps it is cruel,' he went on, ‘to recall these
details, but I am no friend of modern sentimentality;
and I hold that it is beneficial to a man to go over the
lessons he has learnt from adversity, and to renew the
pain which preserves their precepts in his mind Be-
sides, pain, believe me, is a fine tonic ; and in certain
cases it is a comforting sign of the vitality of the moral
sense. For where there is no pain there is gangrene.
To return, therefore. In 1847 something unusual
occurred. You went to pass a few days at Sesto with the
Q s. Your carriage, on the return journey, stopped
before another house in the Via Molino delle Armi. It
was a very different house from that in the Via del
46
MALOMBRA
Monte di Piet^, and the life which you led there was a
very different life. The new house was badly furnished,
and you had few servants. You know where part of
your old furniture is to be found.’
‘What do you mean ?’
* Well, of course, they were sold.’
‘ But how do you — ’
‘ That is another matter, we will speak of that later on.
What was I saying? Ah, you went to live in a fifth
floor in the Via Molino delle Armi. From your bed
room window you could see our mountains here. At
this time you had already indulged in the usual dream
of becoming a great man, and filling the world with your
name.’
‘ It appears to me, Count,’ said Silla, * that you have
said enough. Pray, tell me what you desire of me.’
‘ Later on. It is not enough. I am about to tell you
facts about yourself of which you are ignorant. Your
salutary dream of a glorious future preserved you from
the usual dissipations of the young. Unfortunately, your
ambitions took a literary turn instead of pursuing a line
of action. Allow me to go on. I am an old man.
And so you took to literature. But you were lacking
in the force of character and reliance on yourself
which were necessary for a manful pursuit of this
career. Instead of wrapping yourself up in your litera-
ture, you went off to Pavia. What did you study at
Pavia?’
‘Law.’
‘You studied everything, except law. Oh! I know —
you wanted a profitable employment, thinking of your
poor mother, but in that case you should have given
yourself up to it like a man ; have cut away half your
heart and pushed forward with what remained. What
PHANTOMS OF THE PAST
47
f d you do on your return from Pavia? You published
novel. Now here comes a fact of which you are
Ignorant The small sum of money which your mother
gave you to defray the expenses of publication was not,
as she led you to believe, a gift from her relations ; the
jiay before she had disposed of her remaining jewellery
—cherished family relics — ^to a goldsmith.’
j ‘ What right have you ? ’ cried Silk, springing towards
ihe Count. *What right have you to know of these
things ? ’
' ‘ My right ? A very idle question. Your right is to
look me full in the face.’
The Count rang the bell.
Silla remained silent, breathing hard. The Count
went to open the door, and remained until he heard a
step in the passage.
*A lamp,’ said he; and went and sat down at the
table.
‘It’s not true. It’s not true,’ said Silla, sottovoce,
* I was not the bad character that you say. Prove it, if
you can.’
The Count made no reply.
‘ I,’ continued Silla, ‘ who would have given my life’s
blood for my mother, who worshipped her — I, who did
not even wish to take that money because my mother’s
relatives did not approve of my taking up literature, and
because, knowing them, I was afraid of rousing them
against my mother on my account.’
The Count laid a finger on his lip. Just then a
servant came in with a lamp, placed it on a table and
retired.
‘ When I, my dear sir,’ rejoined the Count, ‘ make a
statement as to fact, the fact is as good as proved.’
‘ But in Heaven’s name, who — ’
48
MALOMBRA
* Let the matter rest where it is. I did not accuse yoUl
of voluntaiily accepting the sacrifice. You know nothing!
about it. That is how life goes. Young men have eveil
the ridiculous vanity that the earth is blessed by theixi
tread, and the sky by their glance, and all the time theirl
parents are toiling and moiling to help them onwardsJ
concealing what they suffer in consequence, at the ver)!
time of life when their strength is failing, their spiny
is weary, and all the pleasures of life are one by on^ j
disappearing.’
‘ Heavens ! if that were true in my case, call me any •
thing you will.’
‘ I have not invited you to my house in order to insuli ^
you. Besides, if you ever have children, you will have
to go through the same trials. If I abused you, I should
have to abuse myself and the whole foolish human race.
To proceed. Your book was not a success. In truth, I
feel that I ought to congratulate you on the fact that
fortune did not smile on you. In ’58 — ’
The Count paused a moment, and then resumed in a
low voice, —
‘ There is no fear of your forgetting the blow which fell
upon you in ’58.’
Again he paused, and for some moments unbroken
silence reigned.
* At this point I ought to mention,’ resumed the Count,
* that if I dwell on the details of your life beyond what is
necessary to prove that I know you well, it is because I
hope in this manner to better justify the proposals that I
am about to make to you. Well, in ’59 you did your
duty and fought for Italy. Your father — ’
‘ Count ! ’
‘ Oh, you know me little if you think I am capable of
reflecting on the memory of a man in the presence of his
PHANTOMS OF THE PAST
49
son, even though he have committed errors and incurred
censure. Your father was not at Milan when you re-
turned thither. He was abroad, where I understand he
died in May of ’ 62 . You found yourself alone with your
literature, and were unexpectedly called upon to teach
Italian, geography and history in a private school, even
the name of which was unknown to you. Did you ever
learn how the Directors’ choice happened to fall on
you? ’
‘No.’
‘ It is of no importance. About that time you received
an offer from your mother’s relatives, the Pemetti Anzati,
did you not ? They wished you to enter their spinning
business, and offered you a handsome salary. I believe
that IS so ? ’
‘ Yes, perhaps I owed this offer to you ? ’
‘Never mind. You refused the offer. Quite right.
Well done. Better an occupation that brings little bread
and much refinement, than one which turns into money
time, health, and a good part of one’s mind. However,
the school came to grief and has been closed I imagine
that you would not refuse similar honourable employment,
and it is to this end that I have begged you to come and
see me.’
‘ I thank you,’ said Silla, drily. ‘ It will, in the first
place, enable me to live.’
‘ Oh,’ interrupted the Count, ‘ who spoke of that ? The
Pernetti paid over to you, I know, part of your mother’s
dower, which they once kept back, amounting to fifteen
hundred francs. After that — ^
‘After that,’ exclaimed Silla, vehemently, ‘after that 1
should like to know who you are who take such an in-
terest in my affairs ? ’
The Count waited some time before replying.
D
MALOMBRA
SO
• I am an old friend of your mother’s family, and I take
a deep interest in you for the sake of some persons who
were very dear to me. Circumstances have till now kept
us far apart; a misfortune which we will now hope to
repair. Does this suffice you ? ’
* Pardon me. It does not suffice. How can it ? ’
*Very well, let us put my friendship on one side.
After all, it is not a benefit which I offer to you, it is a
favour which I ask of you. I know that you have much
intelligence, a highly-cultivated mind, that you are reliable,
and that you have been thrown out of employment. I
offer you congenial employment, half scientific, half
literary work, for which I have collected the materials,
and which I should like to undertake myself if I were a
literary man, or at least if I were of your age. All these
materials are here, near at hand, and as I desire to be in
constant communication with the person who writes the
book, the book must be written in my house. The
person in question will of course name his terms.’
‘ I cannot enter into this subject, Count, unless you tell
me how you obtained the knowledge of the matters you
have mentioned to me.’
‘You decline, then, to discuss the question?’
‘ In this way, yes.’
‘And if I were to make use of the good offices of a
person who has great influence over you ? ’
‘ Do not trouble to do that. Count ; there is no such
person in the world.’
‘ I have not said that the person is alive.’
Silla experienced a shock ; a cold, sinking feeling went
through him.
The Count opened a drawer of the writing-table, drew
out a letter and handed it to him.
‘ Read this,’ he said, throwing himself back in his chair,
PITANTOMS OF THE FAST
5 *
his hands in his pockets and his chin resting on his
chest.
The young man quickly seized the letter, glanced
rapidly at the superscription, and was seized with a
violent fit of trembling, which prevented him from
speaking. It was in his mother’s handwritmg, and
ran thus: —
‘ For Corrado.’
He trembled so that he was scarcely able to open the
letter. The well-loved voice of his mother seemed to
him to have descended from the world of spirits in order
to utter words which in this life she could not speak, and
which had remained buried in her heart, under a stone
more weighty than that of the tomb.
The letter ran as follows . —
‘ If my memory be dear to you, if you feel that I have
done ought to earn your love, trust yourself to the
honourable man who gives you this letter. From that
land of rest in which, by the mercy of God, I hope to
be at peace when you read these lines, my blessing be
upon you. Mother.’
Neither of the two men spoke; one heard a wild,
desperate sob, then all was silence.
All of a sudden Silla, against his judgment, against
his will, against the impulse of his heart, looked at the
Count with such a painful anxiety in his large eyes, that
the latter struck furiously on the table with his clenched
fist, exclaiming, —
‘No!’
* Great heavens I I did not wish to say that ' ’ cried
Silla.
The Count rose to his feet, spreading out his arms.
52
MALOMBMA
‘A venerated friend/ he said.
Silla laid his head on the table and wept.
The Count waited a moment in silence, and then, in a
low voice, continued, —
‘ I saw your mother for the last time a year before her
marriage. Since then she wrote me many letters, of
which you were the sole theme. It is from them that I
learnt so many details of your life. After ^58 I continued
to receive information from friends of mine at Milan.
You will now understand how it is that you see here
pieces of furniture from your old house. They recall to
me the most virtuous and most high-minded lady who
has ever honoured me with her friendship.’
Silla held out both his hands towards him without
raising his head.
The Count pressed them both affectionately, holding
them for a few moments between his own.
‘Well?’ he asked.
* Oh ' ’ replied Silla, raising his head.
All that was necessary had been said
‘Very well,’ the Count went on ; ‘now you had better
take a turn and get a mouthful of fresh air. I will send
my secretary with you.’
He rang the bell, and Steinegge appeared soon after-
wards, placing himself, with many smiles, at the disposal
of Signor Silla. He expressed gratification at acting as
his guide, with a doubt whether the clothes he just thei':
had on were suitable for so honourable a service. They
were ? He was obliged. Thus at length he set out with
Silla, bowing and indulging in an infinity of ceremonies
at every door they passed through, as though there was a
torpedo lying outside each threshold.
Hardly were they outside the gate in the courtyard
when bis demeanour entirely changed. Taking his com-
PHANTOMS OF THE PAST 53
panion by the arm, ‘ Let us go to R he said. ‘ I
think we ought to try the wine there, my dear sir.’
‘ No,’ rephed Silla, abstractedly. At present he hardly
knew where he was.
‘ Oh ! in what a tone you said that ! You are serious,
I see, very serious. Very well, then, I am most serious
too.’
Steinegge halted, lighted a cigar, puffed a cloud of
smoke into the air, clapped his right hand on his com-
panion’s shoulder, and remarked suddenly, —
‘ It is twelve years ago to-day that my wife died.’ He
made a step forwards, then turned round and looked at
Silla, his arms folded across his chest, his lips pursed up,
his eyebrows knit.
‘Come, I will tell you all about it,’ he added, and
again taking Silla by the arm, he moved forward with
great strides, now and then making a brief halt.
‘I fought for my country in 1848 ; after that I quitted
the Austrian service and went to Nassau, where I fought
for the cause of freedom. Well, when the tragedy was
ended and the curtain fell, I was mercifully sent across
the frontier with my wife and child. We went to
Switzerland. There I worked as a navvy, with a pick-axe,
on the railway. I don’t complain of that, it was honour-
able toil. I come of good people and was a captain in a
cavalry regiment, but for all that it is an honourable
thing to have laboured with one’s own hands. The un-
fortunate part was that I did not earn enough. My wife
and daughter were hungry and half-starved. So, with the
assistance of some kind friends, fellow-countrymen of
mine, we emigrated to America. Yes, my dear sir, I
have been to America among other places. At New
York I sold beer and made a lot of money. Oh 1 yes,
things went well with me there.
54
MALOMBRA
* Es war ein Traum. It was a dream. My wife fell
ill of an nervous disorder. We liked New York, were
making money, had many friends there. After all, what
are all these things compared to health. We leave New
York and arrive in Europe. I write to my relations.
They are all reactionaries and bigots. I was born a
Catholic, but I don’t believe in priests, so I get no
reply to my letters. What did it matter to them if my
wife died ? Then I applied to my wife’s relatives. It
almost makes one smile, but they hated me because they
had hoped to marry their daughter to a rich man, and
the little money that my father was unable to deprive me
of had been confiscated by the Government. Alto-
gether, a nice state of affairs. However, my brother-in-
law happened to come to Nancy while I was there. My
wife went with him and the child, hoping soon to get
well and to return to me. I accompanied her to the
frontier. She was very ill, and at mid-day I had to
tear myself away from her. An hour before I left her,
she embraced me saying, Andreas, I have seen my
native land in the distance ; it is enough, let us remain
together.” She wished to die where I was, you under-
stand. Eight days afterwards —
Steinegge completed the sentence with a gesture, and
began smoking furiously. Silla spoke never a word,
seemed to pay no attention ; possibly did not hear w^hat
he was saying.
‘ My wife’s relations,’ the other went on, * took my
little daughter. This was kind of them, because the
child would not have been comfortable alone with me,
and, comforting myself with the thought that she was
happier, I bore my sufferings with cheerfulness. But
will you believe me when I say that they have never
written to me about her? I have written to her every
PHANTOMS OF THE PAST
55
fortnight until two years ago; and I have never had
a letter in reply. Perhaps she is dead. And, after
all, one goes on drinking and smoking and laughing.
Ah!^
After this philosophical peroration, the secretary be-
came silent. The rough little path they were following
went slantways over a wooded slope, from the valley in
which the castle stood, towards the grimy cottages of
. Beneath their feet lay the calm waters of the
lake. At the castle the windows of the library were
still lighted up, and so were two others in the same
wing at the corner of the second storey; one facing west-
wards, the other towards the south. Before reaching
the village, the path twisted away between two low
stone walls into a field of rye, interspersed with mul-
berry trees.
Where are we going ? ’ asked Silla, as they appioached
the dark entrance to the village.
‘ Only a little farther,’ replied his guide in a cheerful
tone.
should be glad to stop here.’ Steinegge sighed,
but answered, ‘As you wish. Then we will get off
the path.’ And they took a few steps behind the
wall and sat down on the grass near the hill. ‘ I con-
sult your pleasure, my dear sir,’ said the secretary, ‘ but
it is very bad for you not to drink anything. Friends
in adversity are few, and wine is the most faithful of
them. It is a pity to neglect it. Show it that you see
it with pleasure, and it gladdens your heart; treat it
badly, and one day, when you have need of it, it will
bite you.’
Silla did not reply.
In his then state of mind it was pleasant to contem-
plate the dark stillness of the night, without moon or
MALOMBRA
56
star. From the valley blew a fresh breath of cold air,
scented with the perfume of the woods.
They had been there some minutes when from their
right among the cottages was heard the confused sound
of many footsteps.
‘ Angiolina ’ ’ someone bawled out. Silence.
* Hi ! there ! Angiolina ’ ’
A window opened and a woman’s voice answered
sharply, —
‘ What do you want ? ’
‘ Nothing. Here we are in the al fresco cafe, taking our
fresh air like gentlemen, and we should like a little pleas-
ant conversation.’
‘ Drunken, good-for-nothing fellows ! Is this a proper
time to sit up talking ? You had better go to the public-
house if you want that’
* It is too hot there,’ shouted another.
* Much pleasanter out here in the open air. Can’t you
feel the nice fresh breeze ? What’s the good of going
to sleep? Sheer madness to stop in bed m this hot
weather. Even the old gentleman ft the castle hasn’t
gone to bed. The castle windows are still lighted up.
Can’t you see them ? ’
‘No, not from here. It will be the window of Donna
Marina’s room.’
‘ Possibly hers also. But the two bright lights below
are the library windows. I ought to know, for it’s only
the other day that I was up there putting m two panes of
glass ’
‘They say there are strangers staying at the castle.’
‘Yes, there’s a young chap from Milan. We heard it
this evening from the cook. I suppose he’s come for
change of air and to pay court to Donna Marina.’
‘A happy man who gets her, and a big fool for his
PffANTOMS OF THE PAST
57
pains/ chimed in the woman. ‘ Signora Giovanna said
the same thing to-day when she was telling the curate’s
Martha how, this morning, there had been another
quarrel, and how the old gentleman had thrown down
one of my lady’s books out of the window and into the
courtyard. Then she turned the place into a pande-
monium, Signora Giovanna sides with the old Count,
but both he and the lady are mad as hatters. If it
were only her name it would prevent my wanting her
if I were a man. She has a regular witch’s name, you
know — Malombra. ’
‘ Really,’ remarked Steinegge quietly , * very good, very
good indeed 1 How the woman hits the nail on the head.
A witch. This is becoming amusing.’
‘ It isn’t Malombra, it’s Crusnelli.’
‘ Malombra ! ’
‘ Crusnelli ! ’
‘ Malombra 1 ’
The argument waxed warm, and they all shouted at
the same time.
‘Let us be going, ’jsaid Silla,
They got up and turned back down the hill towards
the castle. When they had reached the back part of the
courtyard, where it was so dark that Steinegge began to
regret not having brought a lantern, the soft clear notes
of a piano broke the silence of the night The darkness
seemed to lift beneath the spell. Not that in fact they
could see ought ; but they felt the great mountain walls
encircling those ringing notes, while beneath them lay
outstretched the whispering waters of the lake. In that
isolated place the effect was indescribable, full of mystery,
exciting the imagination. The piano may have been an
old, worn-out instrument, and in a city, and by daylight,
its feeble and plaintive voice might have excited derision ;
MALOMBRA
58
yet in the solitude and the darkness it seemed full of
expression and of feeling. Its voice seemed weary, worn
out by too ardent a spirit. The melody, all fire and
passion, was supported by a light graceful accompaniment,
half-caressing, half-jesting,
‘ Donna Marina,’ said Steinegge.
‘ Ah ! ’ whispered Silla, ‘ what is she playing ? ’
‘Well,’ replied Steinegge, ‘I should say it is out of
“Don Giovanni.” You know Vie?ti alia finesfra. She
plays almost every evening about this time.’
Meanwhile the light in the library had disappeared.
‘The Count has gone to bed m disgust,’ explained
Steinegge.
‘Why?’
‘ Because he hates music, and she plays on purpose *
‘ Hush,’ whispered Silla, and then added : ‘ How beauti-
fully she plays.’
‘ She plays,’ declared Steinegge, ‘ like an evil spint with
amorous propensities. I counsel you, my dear sir, to
place no trust m her music.’
CHAPTER IV
CECILIA
* From Donna Marina Crusnelli di Malombra to the
Signora Giulia de Bella.
‘ z%th August 1864 .
‘ A most graceful toilette. But how came you to light
upon so poor an idea as the myosofis? Do not forget
me on the right ; do not forget me on the left ; do not
forget me, ladies and gentlemen. Perhaps one blossom
fell on the sloping shoulders of dear Mr D ; another
may have caught fire in the r d whiskers of Count B ;
while the tall, gawky son of the house picked up a third
and hid it carefully in his Latin grammar. Heavens ! if
there had been none left for your husband ! When I
give a fancy-dress ball, you will see how I shall go !
‘ Send me a tiny bottle of egnatza. My nerves are out
of tune like a boarding-school piano. It is midnight and
we cannot sleep, neither I nor the lake, who is murmur-
ing about it down below. The Dart is there too,
rattling her chains, and anxious to be off and to take
me with her. A nice idea ! A cold shudder would go
through you and the gallants to whom you are now offer-
ing tea and cigarettes, if you could see me wandering over
the waves, alone in my skiff, like a wild woman of the
59
6o
MALOMBRA
woods. Never mind, I will sacrifice for your sake the
Darts wishes and my own ; for if I had not to write to
you, I should certainly go for a sail.
* Now tell me why it is that my uncle’s ink never dries.
Tell me why, in September, the castle is to be visited by
my cousin, the Countess Fosca Salvador, and His Ex-
cellency Nepomoceno, commonly called Nepo, son of
the aforesaid.
‘Yes, I am thinking about it. And why not? Why
should I not marry Signor Nepo and go far away and
forget even the name of this odious prison-house ? The
Salvadors have a palace at Venice, in style half Byzantine,
half Lombard, in colour brick-red, and standing in the
middle of some greenish water between two deserted evil-
smelling canals, all beauty and squalor. A touch of the
East, a Canaletto, a living Guardi, in which one would
gladly pass two months in each year ; though not with
the old Countess, who is an old windbag, full of trite and
scandalous chatter. Of Nepo I know but little. I only
saw him once, at Milan. He has a well-satisfied air, and a
soft, smooth way of talking which reminded me of whipped
cream. They said that he was making a profound study
of political economy, and that, in anticipation of the
liberation of Venice, he was pavmg the way towards his
election as deputy for the district in which he has his
estates and his rice-fields. This made G , who can’t
bear him, call him a lobby-man. Countess Fosca, whom
I have heard speak of my uncle with expressions of horror,
has announced this visit of hers in two letters — one for
my uncle, one for me, both couched in terms of the
tenderest affection.
‘ Another item of news for you — we have a Black Prince
staying at the castle. I will tell you about him; it
is a theme which may coax sleep to visit me, and
CECILIA
6i
check my pen, which is darting hither and thither like
a tarantula’s tongue.
Black, in the first place ; yes, he is very black, except,
perhaps, at the elbows of his coat. Prince — no, by
no means. He is, m appearance, a commonplace
bourgeois, I call him the Black Prince because he
cultivates the reserved demeanour of a mysterious per-
sonage. And now for the romance. Oh, yes, there
is a romance. You must know that my uncle, in his
liberality, has given me as boatman the son of the
gardener, an impudent page thirteen years old. Partly
from him, partly from my maid, partly from the walls,
which are full of them, I have gathered the rumo
that follow in the train of this gentleman. He is s
to be the son of an old flame of my uncle’s, ^
died years ago at Milan m misery ; and the Count ■ -
summoned him hither to arrange, little by littl
marriage in the family,
‘You understand, my dear Giulia, the stern >
anchorite is believed to have had his Capua. I, s,
have never yet met the man worthy to be love
me, but I love Love, and the books and the music
that speak of it; I am not going to have my life
guided by a libertine who has become good in the
wilderness. As regards the danger, which I may be
said to run, of soiling my hands by touching this
rather soiled linen, as you know, it is a danger for
them, not for me.
‘He arrived at the castle a fortnight ago, early in
August, in the dead of night, like a contraband package.
The following day I had a great scene with my uncle,
who imagines that he possesses powers of life and death
over my French authors if they happen to leave my
apartments. So he took up my De Musset^ whom I
62
MALOMBRA
had left in front of my beloved Canaletto, and, like
the bear he is, flung it out of the window. On that
day I caught sight, at a distance, of the Black Prince ;
but I did not go down to dinner, although my uncle
came and begged me to do so, with the benign manner
which he always assumes after indulging in one of
his passionate outbursts. Next day the gentleman de-
parted, but returned on the i8th with arms and baggage-
train, and definitely went into camp here. You will
understand that, during these ten days, I have occasion-
ally come mto contact with him.
‘Well, dear, I believe the story that is going about;
but my uncle knows me, and treats me diplomatically.
He has never mentioned his visitor, either before or
since his arrival. Indeed, our relations are such that
all the world might come to the castle and leave it
without his mentioning the matter to me. He keeps
his young man shut up nearly all day in the library.
At meals they talk of nothing but books. In fact,
anybody not behind the scenes would say he wanted
him to marry Signor Steinegge and not me, for he
makes them work in the same room, and sends them
to take walks together every day after dinner, even
when it rains. The two gentlemen seem quite taken
with one another — a kind of love at first sight. I
think I have already told you about the horrid man
who spends his time translating German for my uncle ?
Les deux font k paire. In the early days the creature
wished to act the fine gentleman and the wit, but I
speedily put him in his proper place ; and now I have
done the same for his friend, who, the day after he had
been presented to me, forgot himself to the extent of
offering me his hand. As a matter of fact, he remem-
bered himself while the hand was in mid-air, and
CECILIA
65
pulled it back before he had actually extended it for
me to take; but he was on the point of doing so.
It was not a vulgar kind of hand, I noticed, but re-
sembled my uncle’s, who has the hands of the Ormengos.
After this rebuff, his bearing has been unexceptionable^
even haughty ; I must give him his due to this extent.
You must remember that I made an impression on
him without any fault of mine. I knew it from the
moment we met, and can the more readily admit the
fact in that it is so little flattering to my self-esteem. I
am not constituted like yourself, my dear Giulia, who, for
five minutes, would flirt with a commercial traveller.
Admit that you would! The Black Pnnce, for your
information, is about thiity years old, is not good-
looking, and yet one cannot c^all him plain; his eyes
are not wanting in intelligence, and my maid might
possibly think him nice. I cannot bear the sight of
him ; to me he is objectionable, odious. I assure you
that no fear of risking my interest under my uncle’s
will will induce me to abase myself to think of this
man. I do not even understand such things. There
is an end of it.
‘How do I spend my time? Always the same life.
I read, play the piano, write, walk, go for a sail, and,
latterly, I have taken to fighting ennui with pistols-
Literally; you remember the beautiful saloon pistols
which poor papa gave to Miss Sarah and me? Well,
after four years I suddenly remembered that mine
were here, and now I make practice on the statues
in the garden, especially on a rather gnmy Flora, which
would be an excellent likeness of the instructress of
my youth, if only I could give her a pock-marked face.
Then I have amusements which rank as “ extras.” For
example, some fine evening I intend to go to the
64
MALOMBJ^A
nightly rendezvous^ which the silly old country doctor
is trying to obtain from Fanny. I hasten to add that
I am waiting for the full moon.
* Oh * and the mysterious correspondence ? Cut short,
my dear. Terminated by the last letter which you for-
warded to me from “ Lorenzo.” So in future you need do
no further violence to your feelings, and need forward no
more letters from the foste restante^ at anyrate not on
my account. He desired, it would seem, a platonic pas-
sion, a tie of the philosphic-sentimental kind, d Pal/emand,
Just fancy * my flippant tone offended him, and he broke
off the correspondence with a long tirade full of fire and
pnde, with certain sarcastic touches that send a shiver
down one’s spine. He does me the honour to attribute
to me a certain amount qf wit. Then follows a sarcasm.
What is wit? A cold, meaningless, empty gleam of
waters bathed in moonlight Now I ask you — If the
shining waters are the wit, what is the moonlight ? The
moon, too, is cold and empty, but not meaningless. She
is real and solid. Does the flash of wit come from some
cold light of abstract truth, from some lofty and desolate
negation ? In that case I detest it, as I detest this pedant
Lorenzo, because I have my own faith, and one very
different from what I believed in when we were at the
last mass in San Giovanni. There is nobody now who
can say to me. Mademoiselle, Ah! Giulia, if you only
knew what torments I endure these sleepless nights, and
what is in my heart. But neither you nor anyone else
will ever know.
‘ Forgive me if I leave you for a moment. I have been
to listen to the murmuring of the waves, and now return
to you. Fortunately the waves’ voice is monotonous,
they keep on repeating themselves. One would think
they were saying prayers. Sleep is stealing over me ; is
CECILIA
65
coming with the distant shadows of the Countess Fosca
and Count Nepo, and their trunks. Farewell, myosotis.
‘ Marina.’
After writing this characteristic letter Donna Marina
got up and went to look at herself in the glass. From
the ample folds of her white wrapper rose up, as from
a cloud, a fine graceful neck, and amid two masses of
auburn hair a small, delicate face, the face of a* young,
capricious child, with two large piercing eyes, eyes made
for empire and for love. Her face, neck and bosom,
which was just visible through the white folds, all had the
same rich white hue. She glanced at herself for a
moment, shook her head, throwing back the two masses
of hair upon her shoulders, and who knows how many
troubled thoughts behind her, and placed the candle on
the little table near her bed, striking the silver hard upon
the marble, as though to defy the solitude and silence.
And now, pursued in her dreams by some wearing
anxiety, she sleeps tossing about uneasily beneath her
coverlet. While all the other inmates of the castle are
asleep too, let us talk in whispers of Donna Marina and
of the thoughts that are in her heart.
B
CHAPTER V
A STRANGE STORY
She was the only child of a sister of Count Caesar’s, and
of the Marquis Filippo Crusnelli di Malombra, a Lom-
bardy nobleman who lived in Paris between 1849
1839, squandering there a nch dower that had been re-
alised in a frantic hurry after Novara. Marina had lost her
mother during their stay in Paris, and passed from the
hands of a severe Belgian governess into those of an Eng-
lish lady, young, good-looking and vivacious. When the
Marquis returned to Milan in 1859 Marina was eighteen,
her head full of romantic ideas, which filled her instruc-
ti'ess with amazement, and a sarcastic smile upon her lips
which gained her few friends.
In the winter of 1859-60, during which he established
at Milan a splendid reputation for hospitality, the reck-
less Marquis decided to return from Paris and to re-enter
Milanese society with the dash of a mail-coach rattling
through a quiet market town. He gave dinners, balls
and suppers, Miss Sarah doing the honours of the house.
A few old ladies, relatives of the Marquis, protested
seriously with ‘dear Philip,’ doing so with the air of
persons discharging a lofty duty and expressing at the
same time the opinion of a venerable caste. Their argu-
ments fell upon deaf ears; diplomatic relations were
broken off, and his relatives would have no more to do
A STRANGE STORY
67
with ‘poor Philip/ So they used to tell their friends, and
their friends humoured them by talking scandal, in de-
ference to their views, of the Marquis, Miss Sarah and
Marina, above all of Miss Sarah. Nay, these people even
brought the newest and choicest bits of scandal and
offered them, wrapped in honeyed phrases, to the anxious
relatives. X. and Y. have refused the Marquis’s invita-
tions, other letters of the alphabet have accepted, but
they treat Miss Sarah with marked coldness. Lady R.
made her feel clearly what she thought of her. It is said
that the governess will soon accompany Phihp back to
Paris; with his French army of attendants, perhaps.
Stupid jests, made over cigars and whisky and soda, are in
circulation. Miss Sarah is going with the cavalry, Donna
Marina with the artillery, and Philip — poor Philip ! — ^with
the infantry.
Why with the infantry ?
Because he begins to see trouble ahead in his affairs,
rocks and a whirlpool in front of him. The grand suite
is a burden to him ; he puts up with it because Sarah
wishes it, she not knowing the true state of affairs. She
is anxious to get Marina off her father’s hands, and then
to make the grand coup herself. Young Ratti was
trotted out, but his father, on information received from
Paris, sent him off to Constantinople. Hereupon that
miserable punster R. remarked that if the rats leave the
house it is a sign that the house of Crusnelli is tottering
to a fall.
All these things were duly related to the old ladies,
tongues were set wagging in Milan about the financial
affairs of the Marquis, but the voices were timid, vague,
and found little credence. For the most part they were
true; but heaven knows how much champagne would
still have flowed in honour of Donna Marina if an
68
MALOMBRA
aneurism had not carried off her father, and with him
the champagne and Miss Sarah.
Count Caesar d’Ormengo was summoned to the
family council on behalf of Marina. The council was
in time to save the honour of the family name and a
small remnant of the property. The Count and the
defunct Marquis had never been friends, and for some
years had ceased to meet. But the Count was Marina’s
nearest relation, and, of all the family, he alone offered
her a home. Manna would have refused the offer if she
could have done so. The appearance, habits, and stern
speech of her uncle roused her dislike ; but the friends
of the days of prosperity had disappeared ; her father’s
relations showed her a certain grave sympathy, with an
undefined undercurrent of rebuke, which she observed
and indignantly resented. Only, she had not an in-
dependent fortune ; so she accepted the Count’s offer.
She accepted it coldly without a word of gratitude, as
though Count Caesar, her mother’s brother, did but
fulfil a duty, and in so doing obtained the advantage of
a companion in his dreary solitude. Manna had never
been there, but she had often heard her father speak of
the ‘ bear’s den,’ which the bear had abandoned in 1831,
returning to it twenty-eight years later in 1859. Not that
she was afraid of the prospect of living there ; on the
contrary, she rather liked the idea of the castle buried
among the mountains, where she would dwell like a
banished queen who prepares, in the shade and silence
of the forest, to regain her throne. The danger of being
buried ahve for ever did not even occur to her, for she
had a blind and complete faith in fate ; and, feeling that
she had been bom to enjoy the splendours of life, she
was disposed to wait her return to them in haughty
indolence.
A STRANGE STORY
69
She arrived at the castle with her uncle one stormy
evening. The Count himself led the way to the rooms
set apart for her in the east wing, looking towards the
mountains. He had caused them to be simply but
comfortably furnished, and had had fires lighted in all
the rooms. In his niece’s bedroom he had placed a
portrait of his sister by Hayez. Manna followed him
quietly, looking in silence at the walls, the ceiling, the
furniture and the portrait, listening to her uncle’s remarks
on this, that and the other ; she threw open a window,
and remarked quietly that she wished for a room above
the lake.
Her temperament caused her to wish for the mur-
muring of the water and the howling of the wind, and
she was by no means abashed by the Count’s lowering
brow and flashing eyes. She remained unmoved be-
neath his sarcasms, which he suddenly cut short, rather
to her surprise, by a curt ‘As you wish.’ The Count
went out, giving an order in a low voice to his old house-
keeper, Giovanna. The housekeeper led the way,
candle in hand, followed by a lugubrious train of
servants carrying luggage. Marina brought up the pro-
cession with Fanny, her maid. They had to pass from
one end of the castle to the other. As they went out of
one room into another, Marina would turn round to
gaze into the darkness, constraining the entire procession
to come to a halt. Everyone’s gaze was turned towards
her ; the old housekeeper looked very grave, the servants
half-confused, half-frightened.
When they had entered the loggia which joins the
two wings of the castle, Marina stepped up to the
balcony facing the lake, cast a glance towards the gloomy
hillside opposite the east wing, raised her eyebrows and
turned to the housekeeper.
70
MALOMBRA
‘Where aie you taking me to?' she asked. Im-
mediately all the servants put down the baggage they
were carrying.
The old housekeeper placed her candle on one of
the boxes, wrung her hands, and shaking her head,
whispered, —
* To a very uncanny place, my beautiful young lady,'
‘Then I shall not go there.'
* It would be better not to go,' exclaimed one of the
servants.
* All very well for you to talk,' rejoined the old house-
keeper in severe tones. ‘And how about my master?
God be merciful to us.'
‘What is It you mean?' asked Marina, impatiently.
‘Is my room a granary, or a cupboard, or at the bottom
of a well ? '
‘ Oh ! the room's all right enough.'
‘ Then what is it ? '
‘ What is it ? ' intervened the first speaker, an old half-
educated peasant. ‘Excuse me if I join in your con-
versation — ^the devil is in it. I trust that I make myself
clear.'
‘Be quiet. Hold your tongue. What have you to
do with the matter ? Be prudent.'
‘ Prudent * You're nght there, Giovanna. Prudence
teaches us that we should not go into those rooms.'
‘ Forwards,' said Marina. ‘ The Count's orders must
be obeyed.' And she stepped forward with Giovanna.
Entering a long corridor they at last reached a staircase
on the left, and going up it came into another passage
in the storey above.
When Giovanna threw open the dreaded door, Marina
snatched the candle from her and rapidly entered the
room. It was a good-sized room, very lofty, with a brick
A STRANGE STORY
71
floor, the walls gruesomely draped with ragged yellow
hangings, the ceiling semi-vaulted, with a fresco in the
centre. There was a huge four-poster, whose tester
looked like some old nobleman's coronet that had lost
its way. A few antique chairs, faithful companions of
fallen grandeur, completed the furniture of the apartment.
Marina had all the windows flung open, and sat down
on one of the window-seats, looking out into the darkness
and revelling in the fresh breezes, listening to the
mingled murmurs of the waters and the woods. To her
they seemed voices of reprimand and menace, friendly
to her angry uncle, inspired by a higher and a malignant
power.
Marina sat there long, fascinated, and without notic-
ing the feverish bustling hither and thither, the broken
ejaculations of the servants who, behind her, were
putting the room in order and bringing in linen and
furniture. Often during the past years Marina had seen
vague visions of solitary wildernesses, on which her
thoughts rested, and passed on without either desire or
disgust. Now those visions recurred to her. She re-
called something that reminded her of this black solitude.
At the Scala? Yes, one night at a masked ball at the
Scala j another night, in her own home, as she was going
to bed after a grand reception, there flashed across her
brain a dark vision of solitary mountain-passes. She
had paid no heed to these phantoms, .^d now she
was face to face with the reality.
* Signora,' said Giovanna, timidly.
Marina did not reply,
* Signora.’
Silence.
‘ Signora Donna Marina.’
The latter started and turned round sharply , only the
72
MALOMBRA
housekeeper was in the room, the others had gone
away.
‘Well?'
‘ I hope your ladyship will put up with things as they
are for to-night. To-morrow let us hope that his lordship
will change his mind. If not, we will try to make the
room more comfortable. Can I get you anything, my
lady ? '
‘ Certainly.’
Having given this laconic answer, Marina left the
good old woman standing where she was, open-mouthed,
took two or three strides down the room, and then turned
back to her again.
‘ This devil of whom they speak — where is the devil ? ’
‘ Ah ! the Madonna guard us I I do not know. They
talk like that, your ladyship, I do not know.’
‘ What do they say ? ’
‘ Oh, don’t be afraid.’
‘ What do they say ? ’
‘They say that in these rooms there is the spirit of a
poor gentleman who died years ago — ^the father of his
lordship, and therefore your ladyship’s grandfather.’
Manna laughed.
‘So my uncle is the son of a devil.’
‘Ah, my lady, do not talk in that way. His lordship’s
fether was no devil, though he may have been just a little
bit related to one. You must know that he kept the
Countess shut up here, as if in prison — not the Count’s
mother, the first wife, a Genoese lady much younger
than the old Count. There was an old man living at
R — — who remembered seeing her, and said she was so
lovely that her face was as dehcate as a child’s. Well,
this poor lady went mad, and at night she would write
poetry, and sing for hours together, always the same air,
A STRANGE STORY
73
and fche fishermen at R ^ when, they went out in their
boats at night, could hear her a mile away. Yes, and
the windows had to be fitted with iron bars. I re-
member when they were pulled down, for I was born at
the castle.
‘Soon the poor lady passed away from this world,
aad when, years afterwards, his lordship, your grand-
father, died too, the people began to say that strange
sounds were heard, and that they used to come from
this room. And they said that the spirit of the lady^s
husband had been condemned, as a pumshment for
having been so wicked, to pass seventy-seven times as
many years in this room as he had kept his poor wife
shut up here. To this day there is not a peasant for
miles round who would sleep a night here if you were to
give him a million francs.^
‘ A silly story,’ murmured Marina. * What is there m
the room beneath ? '
‘ A bed which used to belong to this lady, your grand-
mother. No one has used it since.’
‘ And above ? ’
‘ The apple loft.’
‘ And that window there, what does it look out on ? ’
‘ It looks out on to the lake, for here we are at the
corner of the castle.’
‘ And that door there ? ’
‘ That leads to a big room like this, facing the same
way, where your ladyship’s maid can sleep.’
At this point an outburst of weeping and lamentation
was heard in the neighbouring passage. It was Fanny,
who was standing with her back against the wall, sobbing
bitterly. Between the sobs she repeated that she wished
to go away, to return to Milan at once.
Giovanna was amazed at the patience, kindness and
74
MALOMBRA
tact which Marina lavished on her wayward handmaiden,
who had completely lost her head, and to whom she little
by little restored her self-control without getting from her
a single direct reply. She wanted, she said, to go to
Milan, to her own home ; she had no house there, she
knew, but she would go to somebody else’s house. At
Milan there were at least fifty houses where carriages w^ere
kept, where she would be as welcome as manna from
heaven, and before she left Milan splendid offers had been
made her. Such a place as this she had never dreamt
of, and all the gold in the world would not induce her to
stay longer than a week; the idea of sleeping in that
dreadful room had made her go out of her mind. Her
wages and perquisites were good enough, but all the
perquisites in the world would not make her stay beyond
a fortnight or a month, even in another room. Wages
were of no importance to her ; if she did stay it would
be out of attachment to her mistress, and not for an
increase in her salary, and, moreover, she was feeling
far from well, and felt a great need of a substantial
meal and of something cheering to help it down. So
peace was made, Giovanna being instructed to find
Fanny a bedroom farther away from the ghost's chamber,
and Manna took possession of her own apartment.
Even her stem uncle was at last won over by Marina ;
there were no humble excuses and no caresses, both he
and she were above such weaknesses, but the old Count
broke through the ice with studied politeness, and a few
little attentions, shght in themselves, but sufficient to re-
move the barrier between them. At first, Marina's im-
petuous bearing puzzled him and roused his distrust ; and
her strange behaviour on the stormy evening when she
arrived was to him an inexplicable enigma. He then
offered her a more cheerful room in the left wing of
A STRANGE STORY
75
the castle, but Marina refused it; she liked the fear-
some legend narrated to her by Giovanna. The very
solitude and sadness of the old castle assumed, within
the four walls of her chamber, a fantastic and pathetic
shape, and she observed that the eyes of the servants
and peasants on the estate followed her with admiration
mingled with dread. She had obtained the Count’s per-
mission — and the feat appeared to Giovanna to surely
savour of witchcraft — ^to arrange her own room from
top to bottom in accordance with her own tastes. She
tore down the ragged old yellow hangmgs and replaced
them by beautiful tapestries which the Count had stored
away in a granary, deeming them of no account what-
ever. Over the brick floor she laid down a light wooden
flooring with a bright check pattern, and over this she
flung a tapestry carpet from the foot of the bed to a
table covered with maroon velvet. The old coroneted
bedstead remained, but its court of antique chairs was
summarily banished. A gallant company of dames and
cavaliers of the old rigime, all fine airs and mincing
smiles, last unsold relic of the splendours of the house
of Crusnelli, came from Milan, and spread their peacock
feathers before the surly monarch.
When the delicate face and figure of Marina passed
through the midst of these elegant antiquities, in the
bright blue dress and long train which she sometimes
wore, from caprice, in her own rooms, she looked as
though she had descended from the fresco on the ceiling,
from that clear sky through which an Aurora and her gay
train danced with the Naiads; fallen, as it were, into a
dark, subterranean realm, where her youth and beauty
still shone indeed, but with diminished splendour. The
goddess above her, rosy from sole to crown, had not, like
her young prototype, the flashing fire of life and thought
76
MALOMBRA
within her eyes, and although she walked the sky with all
the symbols of divinity, yet she appeared, in comparison
with Marina, but a glorified cook.
In the next room, which had inspired such terror in
poor Fanny, Manna placed her Erard, a souvenir of her
stay in Paris, and her books, a collection, be it said, of
every kind of plant, and with more poisonous than health-
giving specimens among them.
English authors were represented by Shakespeare and
Byron in magnificent illustrated editions, the gift of her
father, by Poe, and all the novels of Disraeli, her favourite
author. Not a single German book was there, and the
sole Italian one was a Monograph History of the
Crusnelli Fa77iily^ published at Milan on the occasion of
her father’s marriage. The origin of the family was
traced to a Signor de Kerosnel who came to Italy in the
tram of the first wife of Giovan Galeazzo Visconti, Isabella
of France, Countess of Vertu. There was a copy of
Dante, but in the French gaib given him by the Abbd
Lamennais, which rendered him much more pleasing
to Manna. She had all George Sand’s novels, many
of Balzac’s, all De Musset’s works, all Stendhal’s ;
Baudelaire’s Fleur du Mai; Chateaubriand’s Rini ;
many volumes of the Chefs d^ceuores des Litliratteres
jtfranglres^ and the Chefs fceuvres des Littkratures
andennes published by Hachette. She had made her
selection in a spirit of research, paying little heed to
obvious dangers. Bound volumes of the Rivue des
Deux Mondes completed her library.
The great family row-boat had to keep close to the
side of the boat-house in order to make way for the
Dartj a graceful skiff from the Lago di Como, which
looked like a young lady attending a dancing class,
accompanied by her mamma. Signor Enrico, commonly
J STJ^ANGE STORY
77
called Rico, the son of the gardener, became Admiral of
the Fleet. At first he nourished hopes of a uniform
v^rorthy of his rank, and in this he was supported by
Manna, but upon this point the old Count, an aristocrat
full of contradictory prejudices, was hopelessly opposed
to them. He declared, that for the honour of the human
race he would rather see Rico without shoes and stock-
ings than masquerading about in a livery, even though it
should be a boatman’s uniform. When one day Rico,
waxing bold, ventured to remark that at Como and at
Lecco he had seen many boys of his own class very much
at ease in their blue jackets, the only reply vouchsafed to
him was that he was an egregious ass. Marina hereupon
arrayed him in a dark, well-cut suit, which the conceited
Rico put on, growing red as a crawfish with delight, and
smiling all over. Even the old gardener seemed to renew
his youth and his more courtly graces with the advent of
Marina. New flowers appeared in the beds, the gravel
paths were bright and free from weeds. Flowers and
foliage plants were planted in homage to the young
marchioness, in the middle of the large flower-bed
between the greenhouse and the drive beside the lake.
The gardener and the rest of the servants regarded
Marina as the rising sun, and there was a brisk com-
petition among them to obtain her favour. Giovanna
stood apart ; Giovanna looked not so far ahead ; she had
neither hopes nor fears. Devoted to her master, respectful
to the ‘ Signora Donna Marina,’ she pursued her way in
peace.
It cannot be said that the Count was brightened up,
as parts of his castle were, or that he blossomed out
afresh, as did his garden. But even he reflected a touch
of new brightness, for youth and beauty and grace, united
in one person, irradiate nolens miens their immediate
MALOMBRA
78
surroundings. The Count shaved more regularly, and
his grey locks looked less unkempt,
Steinegge’s demeanour towards Marina was cold and
reserved. This curious secretary, who could hardly
write three words of Italian without a mistake, had
arrived at the castle a month before her. The Count
had engaged his services, on the recommendation of the
Marquis di Crema, for translations from German and
English, a language which Stemegge knew perfectly, his
mother being an English governess. On Marina^s amval
the poor man had considered it his duty to ply her with
attentions and endeavour to amuse her. The disappoint-
ments and the sufferings of his life had not sufficed to
destroy the courtly traditions of his youth. As an officer
he had fought bravely ; he was a fine horseman, and an
expert fencer. Was it possible for his bearing towaids
Marina to be that of a silly secretary? He laid him-
self out to bombard her with stately compliments and
antiquated gallantries ; he quoted Schiller, and he quoted
Goethe, His efforts were not crowned with any bnlliant
success. The only notice which Marina deigned to take
of the secretary was to indicate by a glance, or an ironical
remark, how lightly she esteemed his politeness, his
attempts at wit, his aged and dried-up person. In a
word, that because it pleased her to be agreeable to the
Count, that she would not, therefore, necessarily make
herself so to all. In spite of all that the Count might say
in his secretary’s praise, she persisted in regarding him as
a vulgar adventurer. During her sojourn in Paris she
had seen not a few of these weather-beaten faces, and the
type did not in the least appeal to her. In addition to
this, she simply detested everything connected with
Germany; the language, the mode of thought, the
ideals of love, the music, people, country, its very
A STRANGE STORY
79
name. She used to say she imagined Germany to be
one big tobacco pipe, a huge, broken meerschaum head,
with the face of a fat bourgeois^ and in place of brain a
mass of damp, smoking tobacco. From this unwholesome
mass issue dense clouds of smoke, thin blue spirals, chang-
ing from the grotesque to the sentimental, little clouds
that become big clouds and finally overwhelm you and
stifle you in their fumes. One day while Steinegge was
talking to her with great eloquence of German ideals of
Woman, of Marguerite and Charlotte, Marina replied,
with cold, aristocratic indifference, — * Do you know how
the Germans strike me?' — ^and then she related the
above kindly little parable. While she was doing so,
Steinegge's sallow face flushed crimson up to the roots of
his hair, and his eyes flashed fire. When Marina had
finished, he said, — ‘ Signora Marchesina, this old brown
pipe has given out fire before now, and will do so again ;
in the meantime, I would strongly advise you not to touch
it, for it burns one’s fingers.’ From that day Steinegge
had kept to himself his compliments and his poetic
quotations.
Marina had her own objects in view \ to wit, to win
over her uncle, establish her influence, and get herself
taken away, at least for a month or two, to Paris, or Turin,
or Naples, or some other centre of life and fashion
outside Milan. To rub along with this much, and leave
the rest to luck. She had formed this plan the very
evening of her arrival, after measuring swords with the
Count and seeing of what metal he was made. There
was a struggle, before she decided on this course, with
her own haughty soul, which revolted from all hypocrisy,
although it was sick unto death from dejection and
ennuu Having repaired the effects of the painful scene
of the first evening by a calm and dignified bearing, she
So
MALOMBRA
began to praise, one after the other, the castle, the garden,
the noble C57presses, the lake, the mountains, the estate,
like a person who settles down in a new abode and
adapts herself kindly to new habits and new surround-
ings. One by one she dropped her immense circle of
correspondents; and the Count no longer raised his
eyebrows at the heaps of monogrammed, crested, scented
letters which Rico brought up from the post-office in the
early days. The sarcasms which occasionally escaped
him in those days in regard to Marina's lady friends and
correspondents, the sharer in her past follies, very nearly
upset her plans for the future ; for replies rose to her lips
which would have swept away at one breath the patient
labour of months. Her beloved French authors, novel-
ists and poets, only left her room by stealth and when
the Count could not see them. He had a fierce contempt
for everything French except the wines of Bordeaux and
Burgundy. A republican of the old school, he used to
say that the French make love to noble ideas, and rum
them and cast them on one side. He detested them as
inventors of the formula, Liherfe^ egakfi, fraternitk^
where the second phrase, he would say, lay in wait
behind the first to stab it in the dark. And, since he
did not measure words in expressing either contempt or
respect, he declared that all the French writers put
together were not worth old Giovanna's washing bill;
that Voltaire was an unbridled buiSbon, and that Thiers
with his tactics was a foolish rhetorician hke Phormio,
and would be insulted by Napoleon, could he return, as
the former was by Hannibal. When he spoke of Lamar-
tine, ‘this janghng guitar, the plaything of a republic
in its decadence,' certain rough, vigorous Piedmontese
phrases that slumbered half-forgotten in his memory rose
to his mind and gave forcible expression to his disdain.
A STRANGE STORY
8i
At such times he would denounce the democracy of
France, and their novelists and their poets, for he
detested modern poetry and fiction in whatever language.
‘ Society is sick,^ he used to say, ^ and these imbeciles of
literary men only put it under ether.’ So Manna did not
let him see her books, but on the other hand she had
frequent and open-hearted conversations with him on
the subject of religion.
The old Count’s religious views were peculiar to
himself j they were, perhaps, wanting in logic, but were
clear and strong, like all his other opinions. Believing
in God and the immortality of the soul, he started from
the text, ‘ Glory to God in the highest, and on earth
peace, goodwill to men,’ and separated affairs heavenly
from affairs worldly, or, as he would express it, effected
the decentralisation of religion. ‘ Remember,’ he once
observed to an over-zealous Catholic, ‘remember that
the Almighty marked the birthday of His Son by bestow-
ing a religious constitution on mankind.’ And then, to
demonstrate that God reigns in glory in heaven but
does not rule on earth, he coolly cited Lucretius as
though he had been an editor of the Civilth Cattolica.
He then affirmed, by way of conclusion, that mankind is
free to live following such ideals as each man is able to
form for himself.
Marina’s views were not so clear and precise. She
had observed the Catholic ritual by instinct, by force of
the vigorous beliefs nourished by generations of ancestors.
Such cold formahties had long been sufficient to make
her believe herself a Catholic. They sufficed also to
make the revolution which much reading had effected
in her attitude towards belief appear to her something
glorious and full of life, in comparison with the sterile
formalism she had hitherto practised. Her new faith
82
MALOMBRA
seemed to her like the bursting of winter’s bonds by the
buds and flowers of spnng. In her new home she
resolutely avoided all outward forms of worship. Her
uncle, she observed, did the same ; and she was curious
to learn his reasons, with a view to being confirmed m
her modem agnostic attitude. But the Count did not
afford her much comfort ^ he regarded religion from the
historic mther than the philosophic point of view. He
had become sceptical from observing the ills which flow
from the war of faiths, and the fact that their evolution
IS regular, and controlled by a general law of develop-
ment and decadence. He did not care to advertise his
scepticism. He even went so far as to tell Marina that
perhaps no great harm would be done if all women went
to mass. She replied that, from this time forth, if she
went to mass she would also wish to be able to join in
the prayers ; but that active hypocrisy was the monopoly
of the men.
To her a religious democracy was as repugnant as a
political democracy was to her uncle. She was not by
nature irreligious. But she did think that there ought to
be a special kind of religion for the aristocracy, a freer
religion, without formulas, without, she almost thought,
moral sanctions, or, at least, with moral laws adaptable
according to circumstances. A religion in which for the
ideas of good and evil were substituted the less vulgar
ideas of beautiful and ugly, of good and bad taste. A
refined appreciation of beauty and of harmony would
take the place of a sense of moral rectitude, or con-
science; the senses would not be fought against, but
controlled by reason and the sesthetic feeling. A god I
Yes. In the world of new youth and beauty beyond the
grave.
The Count detested music, and Marina knew better
A STRANGE STORY
83
than to touch her piano when he was in the library. She
did not hesitate to argue with him about painting, and to
express her unqualified admiration of pictures which he
thought little of. Marina revelled in an old painting as
she did in an easy-chair, but her admiration comprised
only the centuries when art was at its zenith. The works
of the best Venetian school made her blood course
quicker through her veins, and roused within her a
strange flood of ambition and vague desire which she
herself could not explain. The Count had in the draw-
ing-room a superb ^ portrait of a lady,’ attributed to Palma
il Vecchio. Marina’s eyes sparkled as they rested on
the roguish, laughing face, on the beautiful shoulders
above the rich dress of yellow brocade. In these dis-
cussions on art the Count displayed a most placable
spirit; nay, a look of tenderness often came into his
glance as Marina warmly defended her favourite painters ;
the old man was reminded of his own mother, and
listened in silence.
Yet, in spite of the growing favour with which her
uncle regarded her, Marina felt an increasing aversion for
this austere man, who despised letters, arts, refinements
of all kinds, and who had imposed upon her the indignity
of concealing, at least in part, her own feelings. She
had nothing of the hypocrite in her, and was a thousand
times upon the point of bursting out with the avowal that
she could not bear the Count, and did not understand
having to owe him either gratitude or respect or obedi-
ence. But she held her peace. She checked the rising
outbreak with an eflbrt, unchained the Dart^ and went
off, sometimes alone, sometimes with Rico, tied up her
boat alongside some lonely bank, and started off up the
mountainside at a pace, and with an energy, of which one
would have hardly thought her slight frame was capable.
84
MALOMBRA
The peasants whom she met gazed at her in amaze-
ment. The men and boys took off their caps to her,
the women passed her unheeded. They said among
themselves that she went out in search of the evil
spirits of the woods, and that she had never been
known to set foot m church ; and that she had doubtless
been excommunicated like the ‘Mad Lady of the Castle’
of years gone by.
When Marina had quieted her nerves by violent exer-
cise, she would re-descend to the lake, where the Dart
was patiently awaitmg her, frequently adorned with Rico’s
jacket and boots, while that industrious young gentle-
man ran about barefoot in the neighbouring copses,
gathering fruit, setting snares for field mice or traps for
birds, with a skill that was the envy of all the mischiev-
ous young monkeys in the neighbourhood.
He was a strange lad, was Rico. He came to the
firont at shooting, fishing, swimmmg, in a fight, and at
school. He read and re-read with enthusiasm all the
little books he gained as prizes, among them the Guerrin
Meschino^ begiimmg and end of a boy’s library. He
occasionally discharged with credit the functions of parish
clerk, and was known to boast that he could chant his
Latin as well as ‘ his honour the curate,’ and he held his
head high as he passed along in his white surplice before
the crowd of small, unwashed urchins collected at the
rail in front of the high altar. To his patrons he was
loyally attached. He used to say that he loved, first,
God, then the ‘gentry at the castle,’ then his mother,
then his father, then the schoolmistress, then the curate.
For him, there were no other gentry in the world than
the Count and Marina. He spoke of them always as
though his interests were bound up with theirs, contrast-
ing ‘our castle,’ ‘our garden,’ our boat’ with the other
A STRANGE STORY
85
things of which he heard speak. He was a regular
chatterbox ; whether he was playing, working, or eating,
he was always talking and always laughing, save only
when in the presence of the Count, when he took refuge
In silence. He knew all the gossip of the countryside,
and possessed an inexhaustible store of tales and local
legends. ' Marina would often inquire of him touching
the stories about the Mad Lady of the Castle. He
related them with a thousand variations, weaving into
them his own capricious and poetical fancies, especially
in the final catastrophe. One day the heroine of the
tragedy took French leave and disappeared, going straight
off to the abode of the Evil One. Another day, her
husband had her flung down into the Acquafonda in
Val Malombra, as the country people called a deserted
gorge among ^ the mountains facing the castle; Marina
used to call it her last remaining estate in fee simple.
The favourite finale of the youthful novelist was, how-
ever, this : the unhappy prisoner issued forth from her
prison at midnight, encircled with a ray of moonlight,
and dissolved into thin air.
Marina used to delight in these narratives, and in the
local gossip which the boy retailed to her with an extra-
ordinary mixture of malice and ingenuity. She had
passed a year at the castle, and there was as yet no talk
of any change. Her health began to suffer in conse-
quence. Nervous attacks, not serious indeed, but of fre-
quent occurrence, began to make themselves felt. She
determined to make these serve her purpose; in the
meanwhile, any distraction was welcome, even such as she
derived from Rico’s chatter.
Thus April of 1863 arrived, and with it, in the calm
splendours of the sunset, an evening of ill-omen to
Marina.
86
MALOMBRA
In the west, great masses of cloud were aglow in the
setting sun, only divided from their reflections in the lake
by the thin dark line of hills ; the green hilltops opposite
the castle were bright with sunlight, and so also were the
inaccessible peaks of the Alpe dei Fiori. At their base,
in the shadow, there was a dim soft light, a warmth from
the sinkmg sun ; along each little valley swept gusts of
air perfumed with the scents of spring. Through the
clear atmosphere rang mernly the bells of R , where,
outside the big black central door of the pansh church,
and between it and the vicarage, was assembled, on the
east side of the lake, a slowly-moving stream of people.
There was a confused movement among them, and a
noise like that of a lot of fowls in a farmyard, or of young
geese as they struggle through a newly-opened gate lead-
ii^ to their feeding grounds. The crowd pushed and
shouted round the sellers of cakes and sweetmeats,
pushed and shouted round the hawkers of trumpets and
penny whistles, who were strolling hither and thither mak-
ing music among the throng. Beneath the walnut trees,
and among the great laurel bushes near the church, there
was a noisy sound of eating and drinking. Somewhat
apart from the crowd all the beauties of R and the
neighbourhood were collected ; mothers and daughters,
smiling and elegantly attired ; portly matrons in black
silk with gold chains, gold earrings, gold hairpins ; grave
and modest maidens, whose hats and ribbons were calcu-
lated to turn any young man's head. The priests walked
sedately amidst the crowd, with swelling chests, and red
faces, their broad-flapped hats on the back of their heads,
and cigars in their mouths. A crowd of naughty boys had
slipped into the church by the belfry door and set to work
to tug wildly at the ropes of the three bells, which now
rang out like mad things, .without measure or decorum ;
A STJRAI^GE STORY
87
until the sacristan fell upon the young scamps with re-
proof and castigation. As they fled through the door in
a bevy he dismissed them with one hearty, collective kick,
and furiously banged to the door and locked it. Rico,
who was standing hard by with his whistle between his
lips, supported, I regret to say, the high-handed action of
the ecclesiastical authorities, and rushed off in pursuit of
the trespassers, shouting, ‘ Wait till I catch you 1 Wait till
I catch you ! ’ Nobody thought fit to wait for him, how-
ever, and he, rushing wildly forwards, butted a priest of
a neighbouring village fair between the legs. The enraged
ecclesaistic, calling him ‘a confounded ass,’ gave him a
severe shaking, and a hearty cuff over the head to boot.
Poor Rico retired crestfallen and went off to look at the
band from V which, after playing in the most ravish-
ing style in church, had now settled down at a table for a
little refreshment. The boy, scenting something in the
wind, soon discovered, from what he overheard, that in a
short time there was to be a musical promenade on the
lake. He at once formed the idea of asking his mistress
whether she would lijce to go out in the Dart and see
the spectacle. Running off swiftly as a hare, he leapt over
the low wall between the vicarage and the park, and was
quickly lost to view among the trees on his way to the
castle.
Marina was walking that evening, in the garden along
the stone balustrade above the lake, accompanied by a
short man in a long dark overcoat with big feet and an
awkward walk, who did not know what to do with his
hands, and smiled at frequent intervals. It was the poor
little doctor of R — ^ ^ commonly known as the painter,
from a weak habit he had of dying his beard. ‘ What a
pity it is, doctor,’ quoth Marina, leaning over the stone-
work and gazing at the sunset, ‘ what a pity it is that this
88
MALOMBRA
air makes me feel so unwell. How wrong it is of you not
to introduce some fresh element to suit me.’
The painter gave a great sigh, clasped his hands,
placed his head on one side, and began, with his usual
professional smile, —
‘ If I could, Signora Marchesina, if I could.’
That is as far as he got.
* Now, just think. Could not you build me a little
house of steel and glass, such as they make for the palms
and orchids, and then fill it with nice, mild, warm air?
Why don’t you speak, doctor? Tell me, suppose you
don’t build me this little house, what will happen to my
heart and nerves ? ’
‘ One cannot say, my dear lady, one cannot say ; there
may arise a good deal of disturbance, especially with the
heart.’ (‘ If I were not an owl,’ thought the painter, ‘ here
I might put in some pretty speech.’) ‘Yes, and now I
come to look at you, your heart action is, ah, a little
weak, a little sensitive.’
‘ To air ? ’ suggested Marina.
‘To air,’ replied the poor little man, falling mto the
trap ; ‘ and in a mountainous country one may become
subject to frequent palpitations, which, recurring frequently
and becoming violent, end by causing an organic disease
which may at any time lead to — z. precipice ! ’
‘ How kind you are, my dear doctor. And the nerves ? ’
‘Of course. There are the nerves, too. Now, your
nerves, being acted upon constantly by this air, wish to
accomplish a revolution. They wish to assume the com-
mand and to act like tyrants. Do you take my mean-
ing? The air here suits you very well indeed for three
or four months in the years ; not for more I ’
‘That is how things stand, doctor?’
‘That is how they stand.’
A STRANGE STORY
89
‘ I must ask you on no account,’ said Marina, looking
as grave as a judge, ‘on no account to repeat what you
have said to my uncle. He would think that I am long-
ing for change. Whereas I would never ask that sacrifice
of him, my dear doctor j I will rather go on di inking the
poison distilled by old Mother Nature. I am neither old
nor ugly, and I have no kind of wish to become either.
Do you wish to become old, doctor ? ’
Like a sweetmeat flavoured with English mint, which,
when placed on the tip of your tongue, sends through you
a feeling of either heat or cold, you are not quite sure
which, so the last unexpected sally of Marina’s, and the
look which accompanied it, invaded the being of the un-
fortunate painter, making him feel at once cold and hot,
snubbed, and incited to advance.
Although old and ugly, he was of an amorous tempera-
ment, inclined to mild country flirtations, capable even
of quixotic enterprises. He imagined that he was in love
with Fanny ; an exquisite treat for her ! But this compli-
ment from Marina, from a goddess to whom he had never
ventured to raise his eyes, made him lose his mental
balance. He did not notice the quiet smile lurking at
the comers of her mouth. Nor did he see the Count,
who was walking slowly towards them, his head bent
forwards, his hands folded behind his back, and his coat
open, flying in the wind.
‘What is written on the gravel, uncle?’ inquired
Marma, with a smile.
‘ There is written that you have walked too far, and
that our little doctor here has been carrying on a violent
flirtation with you. Is that not so, doctor ? Be covered,
be covered. Well, and how do you find my niece? ’
‘Very well on the whole,’ interrupted the latter ‘ Tell
my uncle all about it in your learned language, doctor
90
MALOMBI^A
As for me, I cannot stand the crack-jaw terms, and I will
wish you good morning.’
With these words Marina held out to the doctor a deli-
cately perfumed hand, beautifully formed, almost trans-
parent in its whiteness ; she did this in such a way as to
make him take it in silence, and then she turned towards
the castle. Marina had a curious light in her eyes. She
was well assured that the doctor would represent to the
Count the necessity of taking her away for change of air,
and that he would also mention her heroic self-sacrifice
in declaring herself ready to face a whole legion of ill-
nesses rather than demand sacrifices from her uncle.
Upon this she based many hopes. She was on the point
of gomg indoors when Rico appeared before her, all out
of breath ; and hurriedly placing before her his brilliant
idea, received his answer, and dashed into the vestibule,
reappeared laden with cushions and wraps, and away like
lightning to the boathouse, slowly followed by Marina.
The evening was very pleasant and the little Dart
glided smoothly over the clear water. Rico had recovered
his breath, and the sharp, black prow seemed to fly through
the waves. Every now and again the rower stopped to
look towards the village of R . The boats were not
coming, but from afar one could hear bursts of music,
now louder, now dying away. The band had doubtless
halted on the market-place while the lads and lasses
danced. Rico proposed to row towards land, but
Manna ordered him to rest on his oars well away from
the shore. He commenced a childish eulogy of the
band, of the famous performer who had studied at Como,
of the other prodigy who had played at Lecco, of their
fine instruments. Donna Manna told him to be quiet.
Me be quiet? ‘Now they’re playing, they’re coming;
look there ! No, they’re not coming yet ; now they’re
A STRANGE STORY
91
going on board ; ah ! lights. They’re lanterns ; they’re
Chinese lanterns 1 Yes, now they’re coming ! Listen to
the music, listen ! ’
‘Row,’ said Marina, ‘towards the music.’ The pro-
cession was headed by two boats, gaily lighted up, cram-
med full of musicians, all standing up, and playing, with
cheeks puiFed out to bursting point, on flutes, trumpets
and clarionets all held out in line, and blanng forth in
sudden bursts of sound. Then followed the ordinary
boats full of pleasure-seekers. At the end of each tune
a confused sound goes up from the latter, praise of the
music, directions to the rowers, hints to the steersmen,
shouts to this one and the other, cries in every note and
every key. The flotilla advances slowly through the dark
shadows of the lake, and passes in front of Marina.
The music changes to a pot-pourri of popular airs of
Lombardy, and all the good folk in the boats feel their
blood stirred with a warm glow of pride and passion. It
is their loves, their joys, their transient happiness that
are being sung, it is the music bom of their own life
which is ringing so nobly among their beloved hills. The
musicians display an unwonted dash and fire, the oars
come down with a heavy splash, the old boats leap
forwards. All the company are singing together, —
* ZV seifanni che son maridada
Rerch^sera la bella btondtn'
Row hard, comrades ! Even that old boatman there
can remember the days when he was young, and he bends
forward now over his oar with his old quavering voice, —
* Passeggiando ^er Milano
V ora un giomo cRelpi(yueva
La mia bella lapiangeva
Per vedermt andar soldh'
92
MALOMBRA
Sing on, sing on, stout old waterman. Put into your
song all the strength of your voice, all the fire of your
heart. Have you not also felt, when you were young
and handsome, two soft and loving arms about your
neck?
Rico allowed himself to be carried away by the general
enthusiasm, and, forgetful of his special duties, made
his leathern lungs do double work, and rowed and
sang simultaneously, —
* O che j>ena, oh che dolort
Che brutta besha che tk Vamoret*
There is not a breath of air stirring. On the wooded
mountain sides every blade of grass, every fresh young
leaf listens motionless to the distant strains of music;
m the poplars on the meadows the nightingales hush
their song ; the big fish rise to the surface of the lake
in astonishment at the glare of the torches and the
lanterns; while the smooth, level surface of the lake
heaves slightly beneath the shinmg tracks traced by
the procession of boats. That evening the mountain air
did not harm Marina. She would, perhaps, have pre-
ferred the Grand Canal at Venice, or an evening stroll
at Bellagio, where the exquisite fragrance of the air
is in itself an ecstasy. Yet the poetic charms of this
April evening on the lake were not lost upon her, nor
the simple beauty of the ballads which the people were
singing. She was mindful, too, that, perhaps, in a
short time she would have left lake and mountains be-
hind her; the future was full of uncertain hopes, and
she regarded the present in a not unkindly spirit.
The music and the rustic scene before her struck
Marina as being like to some rare delicacy, welcome,
J STRANGE STORY
93
just for once, to a refined and curious palate. In a
similar spirit she would have admired a Flemish land-
scape or an air by Cimarosa.
As the music and singing slowly died away in the
distance, and the Dart began to move towards the
castle, the impression of that evening began gradually
to sink into her mind, just then under the influence
of the voluptuous languor of spring. But a strange
sensation of dread was present also, resembling those
passing fears which occasionally assail us and then
vanish and we forget them, but which subsequent
events proved to have been the winged messengers of
impending disaster.
The village clock at R struck nine. The sound
struck her as different from the usual one. How could
this be? She listened again. Then it flashed across
her that on a previous occasion she had been on
the lake at exactly the same spot and the same hour,
that she heard the clock strike and made a similar
remark. But when ?
It had often happened to her, especially in her girl-
hood, to be struck by similar reproductions of circum-
stances, by the recurrence of the same thought without
being able to recall the original occasion. When she
told her friends, her father shrugged his shoulders, and
told her to pay no attention to such silly trifles. Miss
Sarah had said ‘Really?’ Her girl friends assured her
that the same things happened to them every day. So
Marina kept her own council in future, but she pondered
on the matter nevertheless.
These flashes of memory had reference to trifling
occurrences. Thus she was in doubt whether they
were true recollections or only hallucinations. This
time she had no doubts. Thinkmg it over again
94
MALOMBRA
and again she was sure that she had never been on
the lake at this hour. It was therefore an hallucination.
'When she reached the castle the Count had already
retired to rest Marina paced for a few minutes up
and down the loggia, then went to her rooms, where
she took up a book, threw it away, took up another,
laid that down, began to write a letter, then tore it up,
and taking off her two rings she threw them on to
the hd of the old-fashioned escritoire, which she used
as a writing-table, and went to the piano. She played
one of her favourite pieces, the great scene of the
apparition of the nuns in ‘Robert the Devil.' Opera
music was the only kind which Marina ever played.
She played now as though the desires of the ghostly
sinners had entered into her, only in greater strength.
At the passage of the temptation she broke off, she
could not go on. The internal fire within her was
too strong for her, seemed to overwhelm her and choke
her. She rested her head on the reading-desk, even
that seemed to bum her. Marina jumped up and
gazed out into the darkness. The noble music was
still ringing through the air, she seemed to breathe it,
to drink it in.
At length her glance fell on the floor at her feet,
and chanced to light on a glistening object at which
she now gazed almost unconsciously, it seemed to
fascinate her. She stooped and picked it up. It was
one of the rings she had thrown down on the escritoire.
She looked for the other. It had disappeared from the
lid where she had placed it. It was not in the desk,
not on the floor. Manna began to be annoyed, and
felt for it beneath the eScritoire. It was not there.
Thrusting her hand inside the desk, in a little space
between two small drawers she came across a little
A STRANGE STORY
95
hollow, just big enough for her finger to enter, and
there she felt her ring. Being unable to introduce more
than one finger, she endeavoured to raise the ring by
pressing it between her finger and the wood. To her
astonishment it remained fixed where it was, appearing
to be held down by a little hook.
While Marina was endeavouring to overcome this
resistance, she suddenly heard the click of a spring, and
the woodwork on which her hand was resting suddenly
fell several inches lower. The ring fell with it, and
Marina, in astonishment, hastily withdrew her hand,
but then, feeling again, found that at the bottom of the
secret drawer the hand entered into another receptacle
containing various objects hidden away.
These she pulled out one by one. They were a prayer-
book, a tiny mirror framed in silver, a lock of fair hair
tied with a black silk ribbon, and a glove.
Marma in amazement examined and re-examined all
these under the light from the candle. The hair was
very soft and fine like a child’s , the glove was a one-
buttoned glove, very small and still retaining the shape
of the delicate hand that wore it ; it looked like a hve
thing, so well was it preserved. To whom had these
rehcs belonged? What romance or hidden design had
led to their being put away thus secretly ? Marina again
felt in the mysterious cavity, hoping to find some manu-
script, but without success. Then she again looked at
the objects she had found. It seemed to her that each
one of them was longing to speak to her, to tell her its
secrets. At last, as she turned and twisted about the
mirror, she noticed some letters scratched upon it with a
diamond. Letters and numbers traced by an uncertain
hand. After much patience Marina was able to decipher
the following curt inscription : —
96
MALOMBRA
‘My portrait. 2d May 1802.'
A dim and distant light seemed to flash across Marina’s
memory — 1802 I Was not that the year m which the
mad prisoner was kept confined at the palace ? Perhaps
she had written those words — perhaps the glove and the
lock of hair were hers.
But hidden away by whom ?
Marma, almost without knowing what she was about,
took up the prayer-book and began turning over the
leaves.
A sheet of paper fell out, folded several times and
covered with a yellow, faded writing. She opened it and
read as follows : —
‘ Memorandum.
* 2 d May 1802.
‘Yes, I must remember, great heavens! If not, why
enter a second existence ? I have prayed to the Hedy
Virgin and Samt Cecilia to reveal to me the name by
which I shall then be known. They have not granted
my prayer. Nevertheless, whatever be your name, you
who have found and are reading these words, recognise
that within you dwells my own unhappy spirit. Before you
were bom you had undergone immense sufferings ’ (these
last two words were repeated ten times over in large
letters) ‘ under the name of Cecilia.
‘Remember Marina Ceciha Vei^a di Camogli, the
unhappy wife of Emanuele d’Ormengo. Remember the
night of the loth of January 1797, at Genoa, in the Villa
Brignole ; remember the pale face, with the mole on the
right cheek, of your sainted aunt, Sister Pellegnna Con-
cetta.
‘Remember the name of Renato, the red and blue
A STRANGE STORY 97
uniform, the epaulettes, the gold lace and the white rose
at the Doria’s ball.
‘Remember the big black coach, the snow, and the
woman at Busalla, who promised to pray for me.
‘ Remember the vision which I had in this room two
hours after midnight, the words of fire upon the walls,
words m an unknown tongue, and yet clear to me in
this one respect, that I gathered from them the comfort
of a promise from heaven. I cannot repeat those words, I
can but record their sense. They said that I should be
born anew, that I should live again here between these
walls, that here I should be avenged, that here I should
again love Renato and be loved by him ; they said some-
thing else, dark, incomprehensible, illegible, perhaps the
name which he will fhen bear.
‘I would fain write the story of my life, but the
strength fails me; let the hints which I have given
suffice.
Change names with me. Let me return as Cecilia,
let him love me under that name.
‘ This escritoire belonged to my mother; nobody knows
the secret. I ^ placing in it the silver-mounted mirror
which my motH^ got at Paris from Cagliostro. I have
looked at myselr in it long and fixedly ; for the mirror
retains the features of the last person who looks at her-
self in it. I have inscribed the date with my diamond
ring.
‘This IS a lock of my hair. Don't you remember it?
Just think. It is curious for me to be speaking to yon
as though you were not I ’ How soft and fine my hair is.
It is going to be buried without a kiss or a caress. How
fair it is. It is going to be buried.
‘ And you, too, httle white hand. Put a glove along-
side my hair to remind me of you, little hand. Note
G
98
MALOMBRA
that the thumb of the glove is a little short for me.
Who knows whether I shall have so fine and soft a
hand ? One kiss, and farewell.
‘ I have but a few days longer to live. It is the even-
ing of the 2d of May 1802. I know not the hour, for
I have no watch.
‘ The windows are wide open, and this is what I feel.
A soft mild air, and a greenish-blue sky, pleasant to gaze
on. And the voices of the lake and the bells and these
hot tears of mine, is it possible that you do not recall
them?
‘My soul, fasten upon this fact. Count Emanuele
d’Ormengo and his mother are my murderers. Every
stone in this house hates me. Nobody takes pity on
me. And all for a flower, a smile, a calumny 1 But
now no longer. For now, with heart and mind I am
his, all his.
‘ Five years and four months have I passed here, with-
out one word from them to me, or from me to them.
When I am earned away to the churchyard perhaps they
will come too. They will be in mourning, with grave
faces, and will chant the responses : Lux perpetua luceat
eiP Oh ! that at that moment I could nse from my bier
and speak.
‘ Mother ! Father ! Are you indeed dead and unable
to defend me ? Ah ! vile d’Ormengo, they at least are
free from suffering,
‘ Here let me pause a moment. My thoughts do not
obey me, they move in a whirl, they all press close
together here, in the middle of my forehead, in a wild
hurly-burly from which there is no relief.
‘Farewell ! 0 Sun ! till we meet again !
‘ Black door, black door, it is not yet time to open.
‘ Let me be calm. A few rules for that day.
A STRANGE STORY
99
‘When, in the second life, I shall have found and
reread this manuscript, I shall at once kneel down and
return thanks to God; after that, having compared my
hair with the lock I have placed here, having put on the
glove and gazed at my reflection in the glass, I shall
shatter the mirror into fragments, for it will have to be
renewed before it can serve me again. Then I shall
replace everything in the secret drawer. After that the
spring must be pressed to make everything go into
place.
‘ Put all your faith in the Divine promise ; leave the
rest to God.
‘ Let there be sons, nephews, cousins ; the vendetta will
be good for all. Wait for it here, here.
‘ Cecilia.’
Marina read the manuscript eagerly and did not
understand.
She read it again. At the passage, ‘ You who have
found and are reading these words, recognise that within
you dwells my own unhappy spirit,’ she stopped. She
had not noticed them before. Her eye rested on these
words, and her hands shook as they held the manuscnpt.
But only for a moment. She continued to read, and
the white, trembling hands seemed to be turned to
stone.
On reaching the words, ‘ I shall at once kneel down
and return thanks to God,’ she folded the paper, keepmg
the place with the first finger of her right hand, and
remained motionless, her head slightly bowed as though
in thought.
She then returned to the manuscript and read it for
the third time. Then she laid it down and took up the
lock of hair. Her hands held it firmly and handled it
100
MALOMBRA
softly ; there was no nervous tremor now. Her face was
as marble j showing neither incredulity, nor belief, nor
pity, nor fear, nor wonder.
There was a heavy footstep in the passage. Marina
became transformed, her eye flashed, the hot blood
rushed to her face; she violently closed the escritoire
and strode towards the door.
It was Fanny, who had a step like a cuirassieFs.
* Go away,’ said Marina.
‘The saints preseive us » How strange you look.
WhsLt has happened ? ’
‘Nothing; I do not require you this evening. You
may go to bed,’ repeated Manna, more composed in
voice and manner. Fanny retired. Marma listened to
her retreating footsteps till she heard them go down the
stairs. Then she returned to the escritoire.
But she hesitated to re-open it, and looked at the curi-
ous carving, the allegorical figures in ivory inlaid in the
ebony, which at that moment seemed to her to have the
funereal expression of spectres rising to the surface of
some stream in Hades.
She determined to open the escritoire.
She started back ; the lid had been banged down
hastily and the httle mirror had been shattered to frag-
ments as Cecilia had wished. Marina re-read the last
page of the manuscript, unbinding her own hair and
companng a tress of it with that of Cecilia ; the living
and the dead were in no way similar.
She took up the glove. How cold it felt. It made
her shiver. No, not even the glove fitted. It was too
small.
Marina replaced in the secret drawer the manuscript,
the book, the glove, the lock of hair, the silver frame,
and the pieces of the mirror, and pressed hard on the
A STjRANGE story
loi
little knob. The spring clicked and the woodwork
sprung back into its place.
Then Marina knelt down, placed her arms on the top
of the escritoire, and hid her face. The candle burning
above her head lighted with a golden shimmer the
tresses of her hair, and seemed to be the only living
object in the room. The flame rose and fell in strange
fashion, as though anxious to descend and whisper to
Manna, ‘ What is it ? ’ But even had the spint of light
thus spoken in the little white ear of the prostrate girl,
no reply would have been vouchsafed, for Marina was
speechless and senseless ; her heart barely beat, and the
blood hardly stirred m her veins. Her strong will, her
powerful intelligence alone, amid the dismal silence of
the room, fought with the hideous phantom that had
seized on her young life and now sought to poison her
blood, encircle her form and consume her body and
soul, with a view to replacing her identity with its own.
At other times Marina’s worldly-wise scepticism would
have prevented her from even allowing herself to be
approached by any phantom from the other world ; but
that this veil of scepticism, which usually masked her
thoughts like a growth of weed upon a stagnant pool,
had been broken up and dispersed by the strange
anguish of mind into which she had been thrown as she
returned to the castle.
Her first impression as she grasped the weird idea
suggested by the manuscript had been one of dread.
This feeling she overcame by force of will, and deter-
mined to submit every circumstance to a cold scrutiny,
and to thoroughly understand it. Giving herself up to a
profound meditation on what she had read, she seemed
to hear an imperious voice within her which said, ‘ No, it
is not true.’
102
MALOMBRA
And then she began to harbour doubts as to this
voice, and the voice was silent If the voice’s utterance
was to carry weight it must represent a conclusion
arrived at by weighty arguments which had passed
through her mind with the rapidity of lightning. It was
necessary to go through the mental process anew, to
retrace the way step by step.
The writer of the manuscript was insane. The local
tradition, her own confession, the exultation and feverish
disorder of her ideas, the general tenour of the manu-
script, all combined to establish this fact. Did the idea
of a second existence on earth contain something so
original as to constrain one to suspect mspiration from
on high, and to force one to tahe Cecilia’s visions
seriously? No, it was a theory as old as the hills, one
so widely known that the unhappy sufferer may easily
have heard it, or read it, or found it, in her days of
trouble, looking in the recesses of her memory. Seizing
upon it she used it as a mental stimulant, nounshed
her thoughts on it \ thus the idea became part of her
being. And the visions? Doubtless the walls would
give to the sufferer the answer which she implored with
all the foice of a strong will and a vivid imagination.
They replied with letters of fire. Yes. With clearness ?
No. What meaning had the mirror, and the lock of
hair, and the glove ? What object was served by com-
paring the living hand and hair with the dead ? Did she
hope to be bom anew, and to rise again ?
No. The manuscript was the work of delirium. To
prove the converse, it was necessary that Marina should
feel some recollection of a past existence rismg within
her mind.
Disclose thy secrets, 01 my soul. She commenced
interrogating herself as to the past events alluded to in
A STRANGE STORY 103
the manuscript, like one who leans over a dark well and
calls and listens for some voice or echo m reply.
Camogli? No echo, no recollection. Genoa?
Silence. Sister Pellegrma Concetta, Renato? Silence.
The Doria Palace, Villa Brignole, Busalla, Oleggio?
Silence, always silence. Thus it happens that in some
railway waiting-room filled with travellers, and dimly
lighted by a smoky petroleum lamp, an official calls
out a long list of names of distant stations. Nobody
responds. They are waiting for another train. But who
can say that there are not travellers for this line, who
have not heard because they are lying asleep on the
benches behind, wrapped up in their long cloaks ?
* It is the work of a mad woman,’ said Marina to her-
self, ‘and I am making myself ridiculous, racking my
brains about it in this fashion. Ridiculous’’ she re-
peated out loud, and jumped to her feet. The word
which she had uttered seemed to her to be harsher than
the one which she had harboured in her thoughts. Not
only harsher ; exaggerated and false. It struck on her
ear as though it had been uttered by somebody else.
At the same time an uneasy sensation began to take
possession of her, weariness alternating with impatience,
while her will seemed to be paralysed.
It was a strange chance, she reflected, that had trans-
ported her, in the flower of her youth and beauty, from
the bright city of Paris to this deserted room, left unin-
habited for seventy years. A curious chance which had
made her ring roll down to the spring of the secret
drawer, thus revealing to her the sentence —
‘You who have found and are reading these words,
recognise that within you dwells my own unhappy spirit.’
Delirium. But was there any trace of imbecility in
the manuscript ? Exaltation, yes, confusion of thought,
104
MALOMBRA
yes, but after a captivity of five years to form so striking
an ideal! An old established idea? But would not
that be an argument in its favour? Marina began to
tremble, she seemed to hear herself being called, being
implored, by thousands of unknown spirits who had held
this faith ; for a moment she felt herself yielding to their
entreaties. And the blood coursed ever more feverishly
through her veins, while the action of her intellect and of
her will grew feebler and feebler.
She could not recall Camogli or Genoa, Renato or
Pellegrina Concetta, not one day of her previous exist-
ence, not one hour ; but how many isolated moments !
How often had there flashed across her mind the memory^
of moments shrouded in the shadow of an unknown past.
On this very evening, the bells 1 Her blood ran cold,
there was an indescribable choking gripping at her
throat She was seized with the fear of suflbcating,
with the wild instinct of self-preservation. Then the
reflection struck her that she could not be Cecilia,
because she had the Ormengo blood in her veins j but
the stern monitor within her made reply — ‘No, what has
the blood to do with it? You hate, you have ever
hated, your xmcle ; the vendetta is thus of more exquisite
rehsh. God, with a view to its more perfect accomplish-
ment, has placed you, unrecognisable, in the midst of the
enemy’s household.’
A great fear came over Marina, she desired to escape
from the conflict raging within her ; she took hold of the
candle and passed into her bedroom. The windows
were open, a puff of wind blew out the light. She
endeavoured to relight it, but did not know what she
was doing, and gave up the attempt. She then flung
herself down, half fainting, beside the window, for
the breeze to revive her. There it suddenly flashed
A STJ^ANGB STORY
105
across her how, on the evening of her arrival at the
castle, looking out of that self-same window she had
thought that she recognised in the darkness the form of
an old dream, a weird spectre which had visited her
years before, amid bright scenes and gay festivals. This
was the final blow ; an indescribable cloud settled down
on thought and sight ; she seemed to hear a thousand
whispering voices all around her, rising upwards, then
joining and uniting into one loud voice. She lifted both
her hands to her forehead and fell to the ground.
The white figure lay there beneath the window in the
dim starlight as though asleep. Who was to know that
a woman had fainted? All the inmates of the castle
were wrapt in slumber ; outside, the crickets chirped
merrily and the nightingales sang; the fresh, quick
breezes of the clear spring night came in out of curiosity
through the open windows, searched in all the corners,
whispered mysteriously' among themselves; while from a
distant gondola that had lingered behind the others on
the lake there floated the careless chant . —
j? cossa sta Merica ?
Vh un mazzohn dt fiori
Cattato alia mattina
Per darlo alia Mariettina
Che siamo dt bandonar*
Only the fountain in the courtyard narrated, with an
air of mystery, to the arums^ a long, long story, which was
listened to in reli^ous silence. Not a leaf stirred.
Perhaps it was the tale of the lady who had swooned
away there hard by; but human ear could catch no
syllable of what the fountain had to tell, or gather
whether the lady’s name was Marina di Malombra or
Cecilia Varrega.
io6 MALOMBRA
The result of this night was that Marina was pro-
strated with a violent attack of brain fever, the cause of
which none could guess. It is well nigh certain that in
the course of her delirium she must have allowed some
allusion to the smister cause of her overthrow to escape
her ; but such allusions must have been rare and vaguely
worded, for they aroused no suspicion of the truth.
Moreover, Marina’s strong will, albeit rudely shaken
by her malady, was being acted on by a motive pre-
cedent. She wished to be silent. The presence of the
Count was her severest trial. When he entered the
room, or even when his step was heard in the passage,
the patient became beside herself, and struggled con-
vulsively without speaking; so that after the first few
days these visits were discontinued. This open dislike
to her kinsman was much commented on by the
chattering gossips of R , who put many absurd inter-
pretations upon it. The one most in favour was that
the Count wished to marry* Marina against her will,
and that the girl had become distraught in consequence.
The celebrated Professor B , who had been summoned
from Milan to assist the poor ‘painter,’ who was com-
pletely out of his depth, considered it his duty to sound
the Count upon this delicate question, a task which he
accomplished with the greatest tact under cover of the
medical interest of the case. The Count’s reply was not
less diplomatic.
‘My niece,’ said he, ‘is possibly under a certain
obligation to me, though not one of such magnitude as
to make her hate me. She is a young lady of great
intelligence, while I am verging on my second childhood ;
I have reason to believe that we are, upon many subjects,
as the poles asunder ; these things being as they are,
♦Such marriages occasionally occur in Italy.
A STRANGE STORY lor
the idea of marrying my niece has not occurred to me.
You may have heard the contrary from the local doctor,
who sucks up like a sponge every stupid report that is
in circulation. It is his nature, and he cannot help it.
To return to the subject of my niece. Our first im-
pressions of each other was unnecessarily disagreeable ;
these we subsequently modified not a little, and person-
ally I have none but kindly feelings towards her. But I
imagine, my dear professor, that when a person’s bram
is disordered and he or she says “ black,” one has to
understand “ white.” ’
Professor B ^’s scientific skill, assisted by the
humble ignorance of his colleague, overcame the malady.
After a month and a half Marina reappeared in the
loggia. Her face was pale, the pupils of her eyes were
enlarged, and had a languorous and yet startled ex-
pression. She looked so fragile that one expected the
wind to bend her form as it does a tmy jet of water from
a fountain. Her vigour and her beauty soon returned,
but a close observer could see that the expression of her
face was changed. All the lines appeared sharper ; her
eyes had at times an unwonted dulness, or else a sinister
fire that had hitherto been strange to them. The veil of
dissimulation in which Marina had wrapped herself was
cast aside. The memory of her little acts of hypocrisy
irritated her. Her dresses, which hitherto had been
in the severest taste and in harmony with her surround-
ings, so as not to offend her austere uncle, now assumed
an aggressive and eccentric style. Clouds of white notes,
crested and perfumed, again appeared piled up on the
post-office counter. A constant stream of French plays
and novels began to flow from the Librairie Dumolatd
towards the castle. The piano resounded at all hours,
whether the Count was in the library or not, with lively
MALOMBRA
fo8
airs by Bellini, Verdi, and Mozart. Meyerbeer and
Mozart were the only two composers to whom Marina
forgave their German nationahty; Meyerbeer in con-
sideration of his French citizenship, Mozart m recogni-
tion of ‘ Don Giovanni/
The wild excursions by mountain and lake, through
wind and rain, by day and by night, recommenced ; Rico
acting with enthusiasm the part of guide, cavalier and
faithful follower. To the great astonishment of the
inhabitants of R Marina, moreover, now began to
frequent the church where in the past she had never set
foot. Truth to tell, her religious revival savoured slightly
of the grotesque, for on Sundays and feast days she was
still conspicuous by her absence, and only entered the
church when nobody was there, sometimes early in the
morning, sometimes in the evening. One day, finding
the church closed, she proceeded to the vicarage to
demand the key. The servant seemed to think that the
sky was about to fall in when she opened the door to
the ‘lady of the castle,' and still more so on hearing her
ask for the key of the church. Her first instinct was to
slam the door in her face and refuse the key ; but she
only ventured so far as to say that she would refer to her
master, to whom she ran as quickly as she could, begging
him to invent some pretext for refusing the key to the
witch outside. The good pnest rebuked her sternly,
and went himself to open the church for Marina, whose
acquaintance he had already made on the occasion of
one of his rare visits to the castle.
It is not difficult to imagine how, under such a state
of things, the relations between uncle and niece de-
veloped. The two might be compared to two metal
points, highly electrified, which, on approaching each
other, at once emit sparks, and lightning flashes in
A STRANGE STORY
109
miniature. Marina had abandoned all ideas of travel.
During her convalescence the doctor had mentioned the
subject, giving a strong hint that the Count would assent
to the idea, a fact of which he had assured himself
beforehand. The patient replied that she had no idea
of leaving the castle, that the air suited her remarkably
well, and that the doctor did not know what he was
talking about.
Marina and the Count, from this time forward, may be
said only to have met at meal time, but their opposition
to one another continued without a break. Even the
articles of furniture were penetrated by that dull spirit of
animosity, and seemed to range themselves now on this
side now upon that. Some of the doors and windows
were engaged in the contest two or three times a day.
Marina had them opened, the Count ordered them to be
shut. A poor old arm-chair, in the passage where the
paintings were kept, lost his dignity and his peace of
mind in the process Almost every day one decree
placed him in front of a fine Canaletto, and another
decree sent him hurrying back to his original place.
Fanny, in the discharge of her duties, took occasion to
vaunt high the name and the wishes of her noble mis-
tress j the other servants joined issue on behalf of their
master. The excellent Giovanna essayed the part of peace-
maker, but too often only with the result of drawing upon
herself some impertinent remark from Fanny, which she
resented and brooded over in silence. The Count de-
tested scent of all kinds, which formed a sufficient reason
for Marina to use them to excess. French books, which
she left lying about here and there, seemed to laugh in the
face of the old Gallophobe, and made him tremble with
rage. The finest flowers in the garden disappeared be-
fore they were well in bloom, in spite of the old gentle-
no
MALOMBRA
man’s denunciation of the gardener and of Fanny, to
whom he attributed these depredations. He naturally
treated his niece’s maid with scant consideration, and on
one occasion was on the point of having her ducked m
the lake. The Count thought better of it and cancelled
the order, but poor Fanny had a narrow escape of being
dismissed instead. Rebukes were showered upon her
frequently, in many instances couched in terms of ex-
cessive severity because they were aimed, not so much at
her, as, through her, at her mistress.
Face to face with Marina, the Count kept himself in
check, whether for the sake of his sister, to whom he had
been warmly attached, or from chivalrous feeling, or from
fear of exceeding due bounds. The bearing and be-
haviour which his niece had adopted for some time past
had at first evoked serious reprimands on his part, ad-
ministered in a tone half reproving, half sarcastic, and met
by Marina with a cold dignity which only half masked a
rising flood of passion and resentment. Withdrawing
from this perilous path, the Count adopted the system
of significant silence. It was a silence charged with
electricity, only interrupted by flashes of disdain on the
one side and of irony on the other. At times a small
thunderstorm would break, only, however, to pass away
and leave the sky clear as it had been before. The
wretched Steinegge was in no enjoyable position between
the two opponents ; and Marina let no day pass without
inflicting some slight upon him. ‘Count,’ began the
poor man one day, ‘ I am aware that I have the misfor-
tune to be no favourite with her ladyship, your niece.
Possibly it is the fault of my weather-beaten countenance,
which it is not, however, in my power to improve. If
my presence in any way accentuates your little family
differences, I will take my departure,’
A STRANGE STORY
111
The Count replied that he was still, for the present at
anyrate, master in his own house j that if Prince Metter-
nich were to offer to Signor Steinegge the post of director
of the wine vaults at Johannisberg, the said Steinegge
would receive his permission to depart ; but, otherwise,
No.
About a year after her discovery of the secret, Marina
received from the Librairie Dumolard, in addition to four
or five new French novels, a work of fiction in Italian,
entitled A Dream, by Lorenzo. We may add that the
copy sent to Marina, and retained by her through an
oversight, was the three hundredth issued within two
months of publication.
Marina had the lowest opinion of Italian fiction, and
was not in the least disposed to read this work. That
she did so at all was the result of an accident, Fanny
bringing it to her one morning on board the Darf by
mistake in place of the Homme de Netge, On reaching
her favourite anchorage in the Malombra Bay, Marina
noticed the mistake, and after the first contemptuous sur-
prise resigned herself to reading it. The subject of the
book is as follows : — A young man in a state of nervous
exhaustion, the result of overwork, has a dream of extra-
ordinary vividness, in which he imagines that he sees his
own future set forth in the form of an allegory. The
first part of the dream is realised by events. Fifteen
years pass by. The second portion of the dream had
predicted a violent attachment followed by some stu-
pendous catastrophe. At the age of thirty-seven the
hero is living as a married man in semi-seclusion from
the world, to avoid the predicted disaster, when he falls a
victim to an overpowering passion. The object of his
attachment is a lady of great intellectual and moral refine-
ment ; she ultimately returns his love, but there is a long
1X2
MALOMBRA
and resolute contest between love axid duty. The hero
imparting to her inadvertently the mysterious spell under
which he believes himself to be, duty carries off the day.
The lovers bid a final farewell to each other, and to
happiness. Ultimately the hero returns to his humdrum
bliss, and forgets the temporary episode. The herome
dies.
The story is, in fact, written with great lack of experi-
ence of the world, though with a certain psychological
accuracy of observation.
Marina returned to the castle with her mind full of the
book she had been reading. She would have liked to
meet the author. Did he believe in what he had written ?
That one can resist destiny and overcome it ? If destiny
could be vanquished, was it indeed destiny ? If there be
no destiny, we are reduced to believing in malignant
spirits which make a sport of us, decking out falsehood
with the semblance of truth, and so skilfully as to strongly
influence our imagination,
Marina found no answers to all these questions. With-
out hesitating she then put pen to paper, covering eight
sheets of paper with a vivacious composition sparkling
with wit and irony, and signed ‘Ceciha.’ After a
moment’s reflection she added the following postscript : —
* I should be glad to know whether you believe that a
human soul can have two or more separate existences on
earth. If the author of A Dream does not make use
either of doves or swallows as his postal messengers, his
reply may be sent in the usual way to Doctor R
Poste Restante, Milan.’
Marina then wrote a second letter to the Signora
Giulia de Bella, as follows : —
^ STRANGE STORY 113
‘ Help me to commit a harmless little escapade. I am
just now in a state of astonishment at having read —
either from caprice or through force of circumstances —
an Italian novel. You may turn up your nose, but listen.
This novel is, so to speak, like a nervous man whose
gloves are too dark and whose tie is too bright, and who
enters youi drawing-room in a great state of embarrass-
ment, bows to half a dozen people before his hostess, and
then oscillates for a quarter of an hour between a chair,
an arm-chair and a stool, and finally decides upon the
seat that is farthest from the ladies. When he begins
to talk, however, you notice that there is something
about him different from the rest of your set. He is full
of ideas, overflowing with energy ^ he is a man / Have
you any men in your set, dear? If so, forgive
me.
* I take not the slightest interest in learning either the
name or the identity of the autlior, who goes under the
simple pseudonym of Lorenzo. He may be a bourgeois
with fair hair. The idea which I have formed is this :
to engage in a literary correspondence ! I am allowed so
few whims that I give effect to those which I do have
at once. Y writing to X! What fun, especially if X
sends an answer to Y. It might happen that X is pos-
sessed of wit, which would afford amusement to poor Y,
who is as bored as a princess. Meanwhile, X has no
means of guessing from whence comes this letter ; is it
not a harmless escapade ? So now, dear, you will leave
the enclosed letter, which is addressed “ To the Author
of A JDream^ c/o V & Co., Printers.’^ This, how-
ever, is not all, as you doubtless guess. Would you be
so kind as to send to the post-office in a few days’ time
and inquire whether there are any letters for Doctor
R , and, if so, to forward them to me ? Counting
II4
MALOMBRA
upon you, I have given that address, which is an ah
solutely safe one. The affair is so harmless that it may
possibly tempt you to ask for your husband's permis-
sion to take part in it. In any event, be silent as
to me.
‘ My respects a ton tres~hmt seigneur ef maitre^ if you
see him.
‘Farewell, love. I am reading an old book. JOAmour^
by Stendhal. It is written au bistouri, Marina.'
Signora De Bella, whose natural inquisitiveness had
led her into more than one freak less innocent than this
one, rephed half in jest, half m reproof, threatened her
friend with a moral lecture, and concluded by under-
taking the commission ; secretly reserving to herself the
right of reading the first letter before forwarding it. She
was, above all things, a conscientious person.
The author of A Dream did not lose much time
before replying. He mamtained, with greater feehng than
logic, his pre-expressed opinion in regard to the decrees
of fate and the force of the human will. He demon-
strated how, in events to bring about which the will
must assent to acts affecting man's conscience, the will
is indeed a pnncipal element ; an unknown variable which,
when introduced into calculations founded on fixed
natural laws, renders the result ever uncertain. He
denied the theory of the will assenting to evil by pre-
ordained necessity. He argued that it is a necessary
corollary of human liberty that man should be able to
decide m favour of what is good. He urged that the
necessary impulse is derived from the depths of man's
nature, where it exists in mysterious contact with the
deity, and receives thence a vast, but indefinable, force.
This divine influence, which undeniably hes at the
A STRANGE STORY
115
origin of all human action, surely, by its very nature, is
opposed to moral evil and, ^ priori^ must exclude the
necessity of evil. The learned author developed his
arguments with an mgenuous energy sufficient to exclude
him from the reproach of pedantry, but apt to rouse a
suspicion that he was anxious to convince not only his
correspondent but himself as well. That there are malig-
nant spirits which make a sport of us is certain, he pro-
ceeded; nay, they may even deceive us into a false
notion of fatahsm. Everything points to the belief that,
as we exercise power over the beings inferior to ourselves,
so we ourselves are subject, within certain limits, to the
action of other beings of attributes more powerful than
ours. We fall into the habit of attributmg to chance
that which is, as a fact, effected by them.
Prophetic dreams, presentiments, sudden artistic in-
spirations, sudden flashes of genius, blind impulses to-
wards good or evil, mexphcable fits of high spirits and
depression, the involuntary action of the memory, are
probably all controlled by superior beings, partly good,
partly bad.
Such considerations, however, wrote Lorenzo, all fall
to the ground if we deny God. He then added the
hope that Cecilia was not an atheist, for in that event he
would be compelled, with great regret, to break off the
correspondence.
He next turned to the question of the transmigration
of souls.
Lorenzo believed in the theory. The condition of a
soul in a human body is undoubtedly one of repression,
of pain, and this can only be explained by sins committed
in a previous state. The sufferings of innocent creatures,
the unequal distribution of sorrow and happiness, the
fact that some souls quit this life unsoiled, within an
MALOMBRA
ii6
hour of entering on it, thus obtaining that reward which
costs others long years of bitter strife, all these phenomena
can best be explained by attributing to our present life
the character of a state of expiation and preparation.
Admitting the theory of transmigration, the author
added that human reasoning can go no farther, and that
the problem, whether our previous existences were earthly
ones or astral, is insoluble, and that attempts to answer it
are mere efforts of fancy.
This tremendous epistle, forming a whole volume, con-
cluded with the hope, beautifully and poetically expressed,
that the mysterious correspondence might be continued.
The Signcra de Bella’s supple fingers quickly undid the
envelope, but so much philosophy was too much for her,
and she hastily skipped from the first page to the last.
She then wrote a line to Marina to this effect : —
^ I am certain that the letter is everything it should be ;
it is so heavy.’
Marina, for her part, read the document greedily. The
ingenuousness of the writer in replying with such expansive-
ness to an unknown correspondent raised a slight smile ;
but she trembled slightly as she read the name ‘ Cecilia.’
It was only natural that he should so address her ; yet
she was profoundly impressed.
After a few days she wrote again, completely conceal-
ing her real feelings. Passing altogether from questions
of fatalism and transmigration she sought rather, it seemed,
to rouse her correspondent to exercise his wit and irony,
if he had any, by teasing him whenever a chance offered.
She laughed at the pedantry which marked his epistle, at
the common-place nature of his nom de plume, and in-
quired whether there was any basis of fact at the bottom
A STRANGE STORY
111
of his novel, and whether he had published other books,
and if so, why he concealed the fact.
This letter reached Corrado Silla about a fortnight
before he left Milan. We already know in what manner
he answered it*
CHAPTER VI
A GAME OF CHESS
^ Yes, Christianity I can understand,’ remarked the Count,
as he took up a bishop and examined it attentively.
‘ What are those stupid servants about, to keep us in the
dark like this ? ’
The windows were half closed, and the outer blinds
closed also.
Silla rose to let in a little daylight.
‘No, I beg of you; let those people of mine come.
Will you have the kindness to touch the bell ? There,
near the door, that round knob, twice. Christianity.
Oh ! I do not propose that you should write against
Christianity. You say that, after all, it was Christianity
which brought the doctrine of equahty into the world.
But what do you desire to prove by that argument?
That prior to Christianity there were no such things as
democracies ? ’
‘ My scheme is that our book shall treat of the doctrine
of equality in its worst development, that is to say, in
the field of politics. And among the other superstitions
that we have to pulverise, will be the superstition that
the author of this coarse equahty of the politicians was
Christ. For the rest, listen to me. Equal before God,
I grant you, is well enough — ^the point of view is one of
vast distance — but equal among ourselves f One requires
118
A GAME OF CHESS
119
great stubbornness, a great physical and intellectual blind-
ness, to maintain that we are equal one to the other. If
there is one thing which arrests men’s attention it is their
natural inequality in mmd and body. My cook, for ex-
ample, IS much more like Hannibal and Scipio than a
gorilla IS, but he is not their equal ; and all the rhetor-
icians of 1789, and the self-seeking demagogues from then
to now, will not make him so. Check.’
‘You cannot move there. But pardon my pointing
out that mankind possesses in common the great funda-
mental constituents of human character, which are known
to all, and many other more subtle points of uniformity.
I believe that men resemble each other in their moral
characteristics far more than they seem to do. Ought
not these points of uniformity to be recognised by law ?
Do they not justify the doctrme of equality and the rea-
sonable application of it? That there were demo-
cracies before Christianity I admit ; all the principles of
Christianity were in existence, one may say, but it was
Christianity which furnished them with a foundation, a
stimulus, an ideal. Consider the immense importance
attached to each human soul ; consider the doctrine of
goodwill among men ; there is no more powerful leveller
than love.’
‘ Excuse my saying that there is some youthful con-
fusion of thought in what you urge. Granting that the
modern democracy is based upon rapacity and arrogance,
not upon love ; yet I maintain that love tends to main-
tain inequalities ; I maintain that the more a servant
loves his master, the more a soldier loves his general ;
the more a woman loves a man, the more a weak man
loves a strong one ; the more a small man loves a big
man, the more are these inequalities respected. It is
rapacity and arrogance that tends to destroy them,’
120
MALOMBRA
‘But your argument assumes that the love is all on
one side/ rejoined Silla. ‘And on the side of inferiority.
Whereas I take it that there is a little love on the other
side too/
‘ Certainly I assume that the love is on the inferior’s
side. Perhaps you will tell me that God, of his loye,
was made man? I will not enter upon that field. I
maintain that he who loves, if he be a man of intelli-
gence, cannot, and dare not, divest himself of the social
functions which belong to him. Believe me, your re-
ligion, which inculcates respect for the inequalities
created by human laws, ought still more to preserve
respect for those which bear the impress of a superior
being’s will. Your love of your neighbour might be
better employed than in jerrymandering democratic re-
publics, and preaching the equality of the pawns and the
other pieces, because they are all made of wood, and live
on the same chess-board. But, my dear sir, half an hour
ago I said, “ Check to your king.” ’
‘You can’t ; there is the knight’
The Count inclined his big, shaggy head over the chess-
board.
‘True,’ he remarked; ‘one cannot see in this light
But just look whether no one has come. No, I do not
wish that you should have the trouble of opening the
blinds.’
He rose and touched the bell.
‘Count,’ said Silla, ‘you must excuse me if I put a
question to you.’
‘ By all means.’
‘According to your view, are differences of birth
also among those differences which are to be re-
spected ? ’
‘By my faith, I should think they were. I would
A GAME OF £HESS 121
make you a present of hundreds of squireens of the pre-
sent day at a halfpenny the pair, but do not you under-
stand that the differences in the type of individuals
creates the different t3q)es of families, and that the
great families which have been pushed to the front
by a mighty impulse, and have maintained their high
position for centuries, play a leadmg part m the social
system, and are, in a sense, superior beings. Living, as
they do, for four, five, six hundred years, and disposing
of a force altogethei above the ordinary, they are able
to preserve their healthy traditions through many genera-
tions, oppose to the passing interests of the day the
vital interests of the country, place the fruits of their
ripe experience at the service of the State, and act as
a guide and an example to the people.’
‘ Your lordship rang ? ’ inquired the footman.
‘ In the name of all that’s holy,’ cried the Count, ^ who
ordered you to keep all the windows closed ? ’
^ I did not shut them ; it must have been Miss Fanny ’
The Count brought down his clenched fist on the table.
‘ Where is Miss Fanny ? ’
‘ I believe she is downstairs in the courtyard’
‘What is she doing there?’
The footman hesitated for a moment
‘ I do not know,’ he answered.
The Count got up, walked to the window and flung it
open, muttered something in forcible Piedmontese, and
said to the footman, —
‘ Let them both come up.*
The footman bowed.
‘So you did not know, didn’t you?’ exclaimed the
Count
The discomfited servant withdrew.
‘ It is too absurd,’ said the Count ‘ That ass of a
t22
MALOMBRA
doctor making love to my niece’s maid. Billing and
cooing in the garden like two doves.’
A minute later the 'painter’ entered, blushing crimson
and exclaiming, —
' What a coincidence * what a coincidence ’ to have
arrived just in time to play a little game — ’
'With Fanny,’ interposed the Count. The doctor
laughed heartily and remarked that his lordship was
pleased to be facetious. Though there was not much
mirth on the Count’s face, upon which the doctor kept
his eyes fixed, laughing ever less and less. He then
remarked that Fanny had not come because she had
been called away by her mistress.
‘ Allow me to give up my place to the doctor,’ said
SiUa, nsing from his seat. The doctor protested vigor-
ously, declaring that he was quite content to look on,
and that, moreover, the Count cared little about playing
chess with him. But Silla insisted ; he feared that there
was going to be a scene and had no wish to be present
at it.
' I will come back later on,’ he remarked, ‘ and go on
with the game.’
He had hardly gone when Fanny, in high dudgeon,
appeared in the doorway and asked tartly, —
' What do you require ? ’
' That you should come here.’
Fanny opened the door a little wider, but did not
move.
'Come here!’ cried the Count
Fanny moved a step forward.
‘In future you will not take upon yourself either to
open or to close the windows in my house, and you will
not waste your time in the garden, where you have no
business.’
A GAME OF CHESS
123
The wretched doctor, in an agony of suspense, was
sitting with the tip of his nose between the king and
the queen, and gazing sternly at the hostile king’s
pawn.
‘It was her ladyship,’ began Fanny, in an irritating
tone, and twisting the door-handle round and round in
her hand.
‘ Tell her ladyship to come here,’ interposed the Count,
Fanny went out, slamming the door and muttering
to herself.
‘Silly wench!’ said the Count, as he withdrew his
queen from the hostile bishop’s second square, where
he had moved her, without noticing that she was
threatened by a knight. He made another move and
then added, — ‘Don’t you think so, doctor?’
‘ Perhaps she is just the least bit flighty,’ replied the
doctor in trepidation, moving his queen’s pawn fonvard
two squares, and threatening the pawn of the opposing
king.
‘Bear in mind, my dear doctor,’ said the Count,
*not to lose your head over the queen’s handmaidens,
especially when playing in my house ; it will not be to
your advantage.’
The doctor made his knight give an eccentric jump.
‘ What are you doing ? ’ asked the Count. The doctor
struck his forehead with his hand, withdrew the piece,
and explained that the great heat had made him stupid,
that he had left home at eleven and had paid four or five
visits in the full glare of the sun.
‘ Oh 1 ’ exclaimed the Count, starting up and looking
at the time, ‘ I was forgetting. It is I who am absent-
minded. I have an appointment with some friends.’
The poor doctor could hardly believe his good fortune,
and that the painful episode was at an end.
124
MALOMBRA
‘We will leave the game to another day/ said he, ‘I
will come again/
At this moment Fanny once more appeared on the
scene.
‘ Her ladyship would wish to know for what purpose
your lordship desires her presence.’
‘ Tell her ladyship that I beg her to come down and
finish, in my place, a game of chess with the doctor.’
‘I beg of you,’ exclaimed the latter, ‘that nobody
will put themselves out on my account/
‘ Go and tell your mistress,’ said the Count.
When he was left alone the doctor’s eyes began to
sparkle. ‘ Not to lose my head over the queen’s hand-
maidens, indeed 1 ’ he remarked to himself, rubbing his
bands ; ‘for your pretty face I will risk it.’
He had recently obtained from Fanny a promise to
meet him that night at the little chapel, a solitary spot
beside the lake, some little distance from the castle.
Fanny said she would be there with the boat after
midnight. The doctor kept walking restlessly round
the room in search of a looking-glass, in which to see
his beaming countenance and congratulate himself on
his felicity. There were no mirrors in the room ; there
were only the panes of the open windows, in which he
succeeded in discerning a faint image of his smiling
features. He looked down into the courtyard, in which
he had been caught talking to Fanny by the Count, and
muttered to himself, —
‘ Hang the window I *
The Count crossed the courtyard and boldly faced the
ascent of the steep stone steps, in the blaze of the mid-
day sun, through the deep, motionless shadows of the
cypresses, and the rustling of the gleaming vine leaves
stirred by the southern wind. The doctor glanced at the
A GAME OF CHESS
125
retreating figure, and then, with his mind at rest, slipped
away in search of Fanny,
Meanwhile, the white queen’s pawn and the black
king’s pawn, standing motionless on adjoining squares,
were asking one another whether there was peace, or an
armistice, or a council of war. But as to this, they and
their comrades were alike in ignorance. It was remarked,
both by the black warriors and by the white, that the
campaign was unskilfully conducted, and without energy,
and that military operations appeared to give away to
diplomatic action of vague and variable character, m
which, from various motives, various powers took a hand.
As a matter of fact, what was going on resembled the
action of the wind upon the lake on one of those wild
days when the surface of the water is barely ruffled,
while above the mountain summits the gale is blowing
great guns, and the storm clouds are gathering dark and
menacing.
‘ Here I am,’ said Silla, as he entered the room. Then
he suddenly stopped. Where had everybody gone to ?
He went up to the chess-board. The game was un-
finished ; in fact, since he had left it, only two moves
had been made. He looked about the room, and,
seeing the doctor’s hat and stick on a chair, concluded
that at anyrate he would soon be back, and so stood
by the window to wait.
He thought of what the Count had said about the
politician’s theory of equality, and about the privileges
of birth. Silla felt as though a dark cloud had risen
up before him. He had not, indeed, made a special
study of these questions, but, ever since he left the
University, he had been nourished on ideas opposed
to those of the Count ; he had breathed the bracing air
that moves through the modem democracy, and it
126
MALOMBRA
seemed to him well-nigh incredible that a republican
like the Count should hold the opinions he did. He
now understood the meaning of certain phrases and
expressions used from time to time by the Count, to
which he had not been able to attach theit true sig-
nificance ; and Silla began to blame himself for having
accepted, with too light a heart, the literary collabora-
tion which the Count had offered him.
When the latter had explained to him the plan and
scope of the proposed work, which he intended to entitle
Principles of Political Positivism^ Silla had indeed re-
served his freedom of judgment in regard to the ques-
tion of repubhcan and monarchical institutions, but
he had not been prepared for this new source of
estrangement. The Count had at once accepted Silla’s
conditions, declaring that under no circumstances would
he ask him to sacrifice his personal opinions, and he
added that, by handhng the subject on general prin-
ciples, they might perhaps find themselves more at
one than at first sight seemed probable; and that, in
any case, every contentious question would be sub-
mitted to discussion.
They had then set to work, beginning with a rapid
review of the progress of science from the time of the
Greeks onwards. But Silla now felt that the difference
of opinion was more acute. What course should he
adopt? Enter on a discussion in which he might
come off second best by reason of inferior training?
This was repugnant to him. On the other hand, what
hardness, what audacity characterised the Count’s ideas,
what contempt for the opinions of the public and for
the general drift of human progress. It would be in-
expressibly humiliating to retire without a contest, to
lose himself in the crowd and leave this aristocrat in
A GAME OF CHESS
I
his haughty position of one against all the world F
ought to be confronted face to face. It was not tl
time for Silla to identify himself with democratic passioi
and prejudices; but to stand forth and uphold tl
nobility and the grandeur of the pnnciples of equalit
with the aid of that religious spiritualism which shoul
regulate the application of the principle in accordanc
with an elevated ideal of brotherly love. The error
the injustice, the blindness, the insupportable pretensior
of modern democracy must be frankly admitted; bi
the pride of birth, the pride of privilege must t
attacked and beaten down. Silla waxed warm as th
last thought passed through his mind, his heart be£
quicker, and haughty, passionate words fell from h:
lips ; but they were not addressed to the Count.
No, little by little, involuntarily, Silla imagined hin
self face to face with Donna Marina, saw her pass b
with her air of haughty indifference, rendered moi
striking by the very dehcacy and grace of her presence
and with that cold glance which only lighted up whe
it met that of the Count. It was to her that Silla, i
his own mind, addressed his eloquence. In three week
she had honoured him with perhaps as many words
and, without saying so, she had made him understand
perfectly well that she considered him worthy neithe
of courtesy nor of ordinary civility. Such, at leasts wa
the impression which she had conveyed to Silla, an(
after the first few days at the castle, Silla had takei
measures accordingly. Her hauteur he met with hauteur
and yet not without suffering in the contest, not withou
a certain bitterness of passion which, in her presence
seemed to gnaw his heart. And now it appeared t<
him that he was crossing her path, that he stopped her
that he asked whether she really believed. . . .
128
MALOMBRA
* Well, doctor?* said a voice behind him.
Silla turned romd hastily. Yes, it was Donna Marina
herself, seated before the chess-board.
‘I take the black,* said she, looking the pieces care-
fully over.
She had come then, sailing into the room lightly as
a fairy; or else Silla had got lost in the intensity of
his own thoughts !
He did not stir.
‘ Doctor ! * said Marina, in a tone of surprise. Then
she raised her head and saw Silla. For a moment she
knit her brows, and returned to her examination of
the chess-board, then, in her usual frigid tone, she
inquired, —
‘ Where is the doctor ? *
* I do not know, Marchesina.’
‘Close the Venetian blinds a little,* Marina added
almost $ofto voce^ without looking at him.
Silla pretended not to have heard her, left the window,
and passed behind her on his way out of the room.
She did not raise her head, but when Silla was near the
door she said, in the same even tone, —
‘ May I ask you kindly to dose the blinds.*
Silla turned back in silence without hurrying, drew the
outer blinds nearer to the window, and again made for
the door.
‘ Can you play chess ? * said Donna Marina.
Silla stood still in astonishment.
This time she had raised her head, but the room was
dark now, and he could not see what expression she
wore. The voice betokened indolent coldness. Silla
bowed.
Perhaps Donna Marina expected that he would offer
to finish the game with her, but no such offer came.
A GAME OF CHESS
129
With a gesture of her right hand she indicated that the
chair opposite to her was empty, but her head remained
motionless. That wave of the hand evidently said, not
‘ I request,' but ‘I permit’
Silla felt humiliated. Perhaps it was the subtle per-
fume which now filled the room, the same perfume
which he had noticed on the day of his arrival in the
picture gallery, that soothed his pride, and, in Marina's
name, whispered so many pleasant things to him. He
wished to refuse the challenge and he could not
do so.
‘ You are afraid ? ' asked Donna Marina.
Silla took the empty chair.
‘ Of winning, my lady,’ he replied.
She raised her eyes to his. Then Silla began to feel
the languorous charm of her face ; he looked full into
those large, clear eyes which seemed to question him
as closely as her lips did.
* Why of winning ? ’
‘ Because I do not know how to take the second place
when I do not deserve it.’
She slightly raised her eyebrows, as another would
have shrugged the shoulders, looked at the chess-board
with forefinger on chin, and said, —
‘ My move.’
She stretched out her hand, but held it for a moment
hovering over the pieces. The bright ray of light which
entered between the half-closed blinds fell on her wavy
hair, on her pale cheek, on the delicate little ear, on the
tiny white hand hanging in mid-air, with its soft rose
tints beneath the clear skin ; it lit up the calm face of a
beautiful woman intent upon the game. Silla was not
so tranquil ; involuntarily, as he gazed upon her, he felt
that he could kiss that face, and bite it.
I
130 MALOMBRA
Donna Marina took the white queen’s pawn and
threw It back into the box.
‘ You are sure you play as well as I do ? ’ said she.
* I do not know how you play,’ replied Silla, moving a
bishop.
Marina uttered a short, metallic laugh as she looked at
the hostile bishop.
‘But I know how you play. You play a cautious
game. You are afraid of losing, not of winning.’
At this moment the doctor opened the door, and
seemg that the game was in pi ogress stood still. Marina
appeared not to see him. He went out, shutting the
door very quietly.
‘What move are you going to make?’ continued
Marina in a sharper tone. ‘ Why don’t you bring out the
queen ? Why don’t you attack in earnest ? ’
‘ I am not going to attack. I am playing a defensive
game, and I can assure you that my defence is fairly
strong. Why do you wish me to attack ? ’
‘ Because in that case I should finish the game more
quickly.’
‘ That depends.’
‘ Try,’ said Manna.
Silla bent over the board, scanning it closely.
Donna Marina made a movement of impatience, and
rose to her feet.
‘ Such deep study is useless,’ she remarked. ‘ I assure
you that you will not win. You will not win,’ she re-
peated, throwmg the pieces into disorder and overturning
them with her hand. ‘ I have only played this one game
with you, and I don’t think I shall ever play another.’
‘ All the better for you,’ she added.
‘ Not at aU. Neither better nor worse.’
‘ True,’ she rejoined sarcastically, ‘ you are not here in
j4 game of chess
I3I
order to play chess with me. You are here to prosecute
profound studies with Count Csesar, are you not ? What
do you study ? ’
Silla was pleased at the irritation she displayed j it was
a victory for him.
‘They are studies which would not interest your
ladyship.’
Marina seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then
she went back to her seat
What doubts, what ideas of conciliation were passing
through her mmd ? She took in both hands a httle gold
cross, which hung from her neck over the dkollete dress,
and toyed with it, while her chin sunk on to her breast
and the movement of her hands uncovered a little of the
moulded arms.
‘ Very deep, those studies of yours, I suppose ? ’ she
remarked.
‘Oh, no.’
‘ You think, then, that they are too high for me ? ’
‘ I did not say so.’
‘ Let us see ; are they mathematics ? ’
‘No.’
‘ Metaphysics ? ’
‘No.’
‘ The black art, perhaps ? The Count has a good deal
of the sorcerer about him, don’t you think. Signor —
Signor — Your name is—? ’
‘Silla.’
‘ Do not you think so, Signor Silla ? ’
‘No.’
‘ You are very reserved.*
There was silence for a moment. Then the voice of
the Count was heard, with those of other persons all
coming down the stairs together.
132
MALOMBRA
Silla stood up,
‘ Wait a moment/ she said brusquely,
* I don't want to have any Sphinxes about me. What
is it that you are writing with my uncle ? '
‘ A troublesome book.'
‘ That is understood ; but what is it about ? '
‘ The science of politics.'
^ Your are a politician ? '
‘Somethmg better j I am an artist.'
* A professional musician, do you mean ? '
‘ Your ladyship has a ready wit.'
^ And you are very proud.'
^ Possibly.'
* And by what right ? '
As she uttered these words Marina smiled a curi-
ous smile, the venom of which was unobserved by
Silla.
‘ By the right of reprisals,' he replied.
‘ Oh ! ’ exclaimed Manna. A look of scorn flashed
from her eyes. At that moment the same thought
occurred to each of them, the thought of a bond linking
their future destinies together, but linking them by a
chain of antagonism and of enmity.
* It is true then,' said Manna, soUowce, ‘ that there is
another game which you are playing ? '
‘ I ? ' rephed Silla, in amazement. ‘ I do not under-
stand to what you refer.'
‘ Oh, you understand. But you play the game quietly,
cautiously ; you have not yet moved the queen. It is a
poor thing, that pride of yours. And you talk about
reprisals ! Do you not know what kind of woman lam?
Some time ago they wrote of me that I am arrogant,
that I should like to take up my abode in some bright
star, and that in this vulgar, scandal-loving planet of
A GAME OF CHESS
135
ours there is no spot fit for me to place my feet. I shall
reply that I have found the spot, and — ’
‘ Ah ! here is my niece,’ said the Count, entering the
room with his guests.
Silla did not stir. He was looking at Marina, his
eyes wide open with astonishment. His unknown cor-
respondent — Cecilia !
‘ Let me introduce my friend, Signor Corrado Silla,’
the Count continued, * whose thoughts are still with his
chessmen, it would seem.’
CHAPTER VII
SCANDAL
The same evening the Venetian lady by Palma il
Vecchio was playfully entreated to issue forth from
her frame and take a seat at the dinner-table. The
beautiful dame replied with her wonted smile. The
table might glitter with plate, cut glass, and flowers, but
these suflSced not to allure one grown up among Oriental
magnificence. Moreover, the admirers prostrate at her
feet were but a vulgar set after all. The Commendatore
Finoti, a deputy, with his eyes all fire and the rest of
him bumt-out cinders.
Then there was Commendatore Vezza, a literary man,
an aspirant for a post on the Council of education, and a
candidate for the Senate.
He was a small man of rotund figure, brimming over
with wit and learning, a favourite with the ladies, though
he failed to please the lady in the picture. She was not
literary; and she only laughed at his sheep^s eyes,
stumpy figure, and general resemblance to a soldier made
of guttapercha. Present also was the Professor Cavahere
Ferrieri, an engineer, with expressive features, intelli-
gent eyes, a sceptical smile, and brains of excellent
quality. Yet even he failed to charm the beautiful
Venetian. She belonged too much to the sixteenth
century, and he too much to the nineteenth. Born
134
SCANDAL
135
with a spark of poetic and artistic genius, he had de-
graded It to a mechanical machine. There was also th e
Advocate Bianchi, a fashionable young man, with a shy
manner like that of a blushing bnde newly married.
He also made the lady above him smile. This con-
cluded the list of strangers, for we cannot include among
them the sorry figure of the old doctor, who had slipped
into the dining-room without being invited.
The cause of all these people being assembled to-
gether at the castle was the sohtary little stream which
flows from the lake towards the west, in and out among
the poplar trees. Some Milan capitalists had commis-
sioned Professor Ferrieri to report whether there was
sufficient water-power for a large paper mill
The professor was to draw up a scheme and to approach
the local authorities, with a view to the construction of a
road and a free grant of communal land. His reputation
stood high as an engineer ; and three or four lines with
his signature attached would attract shareholders in hun-
dreds. With him was his nephew, an attorney, his legal
adviser in the negotiations.
The politician and the man of letters had joined the
party to pay a long-deferred visit to the castle, promised
since 1859.
The dinner was excellent, and was enlivened with a
flow of wit. The jests of the deputy alternated with the
academic insipidities of the man of letters, and the
incisive epigrams of the engineer.
The deep voice of the Count frequently drowned the
voices of his guests, the clinking of plates and glasses,
the disagreeable clashing of empty dishes, and all the
sounds of a dinner-party. Meanwhile, the young attorney
held his tongue and ate little, drank water and feasted
his eyes on Marina.
136 MALOMBRA
Steinegge and the doctor spoke together in low
tones, and occasionally, but rarely, exchanged a
word with Silla. The latter, absorbed in other
thoughts, sometimes made no response, sometimes
replied at random.
Marina, too, spoke little.
Her neighbours, the two commendatori, made elabor-
ate efforts to lead her into conversation, but only suc-
ceeded in extracting an occasional monosyllable.
Yet the expression of her face, which she did not once
turn towards Silla, did not betoken anxiety or trouble of
any kind. Vezza, whose weakness was a desire for uni-
versal kndwledge, asked her, as a last resort, whether she
had seen the latest fashion in embroidery, which everyone
at Milan was now learning. She replied with a low ex-
clamation of contemptuous surprise, which confused the
learned man, and compelled him to seek refuge in the
general conversation. This turned on the new paper
mill. The engineer was boasting of the new machines
which they were going to introduce for the manufacture
of papier m&chL Steinegge expressed surprise that this
was a novelty in Italy; it was, he said, well known in
Saxony. Vezza remarked that in Italy their shareholders
were made of papier m^cM, and their share certificates
of rags ; and he then proceeded to comment ill-naturedly
on the new Germanism of industry, which, in his opinion,
was as objectionable as the Germanism of letters. The
discussion grew warm; Finotti supported Vezza; the
engineer opposed him. Steinegge, as red as a peony,
fumed in silence, and poured out libations of Sasella and
Barolo on the altar of his injured patriotism.
‘ That is the best Italian poetry, is it not ? ^ the engineer
remarked with a smile.
Steinegge clasped his hands, gave a sigh, and raised
SCANDAL
137
his eyes towards heaven in silence, like a middle-aged
seraph in an ecstasy.
‘ Hear I hear 1 Steinegge, bravo ! ’ cried the deputy.
‘By the way, Caesar, the Mayor and Corporation of
R will soon be here, will they not, in order to dis-
cuss matters with Ferrieri, with you as chairman ? You
ought to dip them all in this Barolo. However tough
their worships may be, our friend here would swallow
them one after the other.^
‘ Ah ! you don’t know them,’ replied the Count.
‘They will drink in my wine and the professor’s argu-
ments, they will gulp down everything and decide upon
nothing. The more attention one shows to people
of that kind, the more distrustful they become. They
are not altogether wrong m that, after all.’
‘Perhaps you are right. But the professor brmgs
no gift in his hand, and his features are anything but
classical. What do you think, Marchesina?’
Marina replied drily that she took no interest in the
classics.
‘And our friend there has spent forty years in for-
getting the little he knew. Don’t pay any attention to
him. For the rest, the plan is simple enough. Two
hundred and fifty workpeople and a dozen supenn-
tendents. We have enough water-power for many fac-
tories. A railway will be the next thing. In short,
the Corporation of R must present me with the road
and land, and the freedom of the borough.’
‘Castles in the air! Ah, a trout, salmo pharius.
Your paper mills will soon put an end to these.’
With this remark, Vezza entered upon a lively con-
versation with the Count, the engineer and Steinegge,
about trout of every kind and pisciculture in general.
The politician had meanwhile buttonholed the doctor
138
MALOMBRA
on the subject of Corrado Silla; greedily fastening on
the malicious rumour concerning the young man’s
origin. When he could place his finger on a human
weakness of this kind, in an unexpected quarter, he was
truly happy.
‘Well,’ Vezza was remarking, ‘for trout you may bait
with a fly or with a worm.’
‘ Or a German poet,’ suggested the engineer.
‘ No, who cares for them ? He might perhaps attract
a corporation of the lake country.’
The commendatore stopped abruptly, for just then
the footman announced the Mayor and Corporation of
R .
This was the signal for a general move, shifting of
chairs, formal introductions, and an eloquent toast by
Vezza to the future prosperity of the borough of R ,
‘so worthily and wisely represented.’ The municipal
councillors looked at him in stupefaction, and with the
vague anxiety of those who hear their praises sung and
do not know why. Then all rose from the table, and
the Count, the engineer, the young advocate and the
mayor and corporation drew on one side to discuss
matters.
Finotti ofiered his arm to Donna Marina, whispering
a few words in French, with a smile provoked probably
by the musty municipal councillors. They brought
with them an odour of fustian. Passing from the close
room to the fresh air of the loggia, one was met by
the sweet perfume of the flowers in the court below.
The mountains, and the lake which reflected them,
were aglow with a golden light. The western sky
was bright and clear. In the -east, the gleaming sum-
mits of the Alpe dei Fiori touched the dark and stormy
sky.
SCANDAL
139
‘ Beautiful, indeed,’ said Finotti as he leant over the
balustrade. ‘Beautiful, but too lonely a scene. How
do you find the time pass m this hermitage, Marches-
ina?’
‘ It does not pass, not altogether,’ replied Marina.
‘But I suppose there is some civilised being in the
neighbourhood with whom you can exchange ideas ? ’
‘Yes, there is one. He paints.’
She pointed towards the doctor, who was standing
open-mouthed hstening to a vivacious dialogue between
Vezza and Steinegge. Silla stood on one side, looking
at the fountain in the courtyard.
‘But Caesar has always guests with him,’ insisted
Finotti. ‘Even now, I fancy,’ he added with a tone
full of suggestiveness, and looking towards the young
lady, who bit her lip and was silent.
‘ How does he come to be a friend of Caesar’s ? ’ in-
quired the commendatore, sottovoce.
‘ I don’t know.’
‘And yet I envy him.’
‘Why?’
‘ He lives near you.’
‘ That may not be so agreeable to those who do not
please me,’ said Marina, with the tone and air of one in-
tending to cut short the conversation.
‘ Vezza 1’ called out Finotti in a loud voice. ‘How
can you stand there discussing trout and crawfish when
there is a lady present? ‘I observe that my most
worthy friend, the doctor, is not a little shocked.’
The worthy doctor became convulsed with protesta-
tions.
‘ Marchesina,’ remarked Vezza, drawing nearer, ‘ please
observe how a friend is rewarded for his self-sacrifice in
yielding the best place to another.’
140
MALOMBRA
‘ Ah ! Was it yours ? ’ rejoined Marina, with one of her
curious smiles, and, without awaiting a reply, she turned
to Steinegge and said, —
'Three chairs/
There were five people in the loggia, and not a single
chair.
‘ When a young lady gives the order, ^ replied Steinegge,
after a moment’s silence, ‘a cavalry officer will bring
thirty.’
Finotti was looking at Silla. His face was pale, and
he was watching Marina with so contemptuous a light in
his eyes that he attracted the attention of the dilettante
student of practical psycholo^
‘ Everybody standing ? ’ remarked the Count, entering
the loggia at that moment with the engineer, the attorney
and the municipality. ‘My dear Steinegge, have the
goodness to tell them to bring some chairs. The pro-
fessor wishes to construct a dam to regulate the overflow
of the lake, and to see what else may be necessary.
These gentlemen prefer to stay behind.’
‘We shall be in the way otherwise,’ said one of
them.
‘ Well, well,’ said the Count, ‘ you must pay your re-
spects to my niece. When you are ready, professor.’
The professor hastily shook hands with the five worthy
councillors, and went away with the Count.’
‘ We will make the bears dance,’ whispered Finotti to
Donna Manna.
But the bears were less bearish than was supposed.
Three of them, two of the assessors and the mayor, knew
better than to say a single word. The other two, the as-
sessor, who really did the work, could give points in
knavery to the commendatore himself. In activity of
.ongue they were little behind him, allowing for the fact
SCANDAL
141
that they were peasants ; fat and well-to-do, indeed, but
still peasants of the farmyard and the plough.
‘ We are poor country bumpkins,’ remarked one of
them. They had a very fine sense of humbug.
The conversation naturally turned on the paper mill.
Finotti gave an enthusiastic sketch of the wonderful in-
dustries which would spring up, of the fabulous profits
that would accrue to the neighbourhood. His two lis-
teners vigorously nodded assent, rubbing their knees
gently with their hands
‘ How sharp the world has become,’ said the elder of
them.
‘ Yet we remain round,’ li^liedhis colleague i ‘at least,
as long as they don’t plane us down.’
‘ A wealthy commune, I believe,’ said Finotti.
‘ So, so. You see our puMic pastures in front of you.
When they have given place to the new road leading to
the paper-mill, we shall know what it is to be well-to-do.
For the present, things are only middling.’
‘I don’t know whether it is the wine which the
Count was good enough to give us, but it seems to me
that in the time that’s coming we shall all rise in the
world. It was a fine wine ; whether one can trust it I
don’t know. What do you say. Signor Steinegge? I
have seen you occasionally at hump-backed Cecchina’s.’
‘ Ah, ah > ’ murmured Steinegge, who did not altogether
understand,
* Gracious 1 ’ exclaimed Vezza, observing the heavy
black clouds banked up in the east. ‘ We are going to
have a storm.’
* I think not,’ replied one of the assessors.
‘ Not just now; to-night, perhaps.’
‘ What do you call those rocks shining in the sun ? ’
* We call them the Alpe dei Fiori. As a youngster, I
142
MALOMBRA
have been up those hills hay-making. A better name
for them would be Alpe del Diavolo.’
* It is true the Devil’s Cave is up there/ said the other
assessor.
‘ Oh I there’s a devil’s cave ? ’ remarked Silla. ‘ And
why so called ? ’
don’t know, I’m sure. Better ask the women.
They tell a hundred stones about it.’
‘For instance?’
‘For instance, they say that through that cave one
goes straight away to Hell, as straight as an arrow, and
that all the Evil One’s special favourites take that road.
They even mention the names of three or four.’
‘Indeed,’ chimed in Finotti. ‘Let us hear them.’
* Oh, really, I’ve forgotten.’
‘ People from these parts? ’
‘ Some, yes j some, no, I forget.’
At this point, in an evil moment, the worthy mayor
abandoned his prudent reserve.
‘But, Pietro, you surely remember one. The mad
lady.’
‘Ass,’ murmured his irreverent colleague to himself,
and then relapsed into silence.
‘ Well done most worshipful mayor ! Of course, you
ought to know by what road your subjects leave this
world. Tell us all about it It is not an official secret,
let us hope.’
The mayor, recognising too late that he had put his
foot in it, wriggled uneasily in his chair.
‘Old fables,’ he replied, ‘old country tales. It all
happened six hundred years ago, or thereabouts.’
* Oh ! six hundred ! Something under sixty would be
nearer the mark,’ said one of the town councillors, who
had not yet spoken.
SCANDAL
143
‘ Well, well, sixty or six hundred ; in any case, it is an
old story, and can hardly interest the present company.'
But the unfortunate mayor, finding himself in a tight
place and unable to escape, at last unburdened himself,
and told the whole story without further reserve.
‘ Well, this mad lady was the first wife of the previous
Count ; a Genoese lady who, it would appear, committed
some small indiscretion, and her husband brought her
here, to the castle, and kept her imprisoned there; he
himself remained here till her death. The country folk
say that the devil flew away with her through that cave.'
While the mayor was speaking, Marina rose from her
seat and turned her back upon him. His colleagues
made signs of stormy disapproval.
Vezza remarked casually, —
‘ Is that Caesar's boat ? that one over there.’
‘ Noble times, those 1 ’ exclaimed Silla, in his deep
voice. All present, except Marina, looked at him with
amazement.
‘Times of moral strength,’ he continued, paying no
heed to the glances cast at him.
‘Nowadays we have violent scenes and give rein to
the impulse of passion — of unbridled and selfish passion.
If a woman falls, we kill her or drive her forth. To
revenge oneself, to make oneself free. That is our aim.
In former times it was otherwise. Then you might find
a gentleman capable of burying himself in a wildemess
with the woman who had injured him, sharing the expia-
tion though he had not shared the sin, and breaking with
all worldly ties out of respect for a bond, painful indeed,
but sacred.’
Marina, without turning round, nervously stripped the
leaves from a twig she held in her hand,
‘It may have been a hideous form of revenge,’ re-
144
I^ALOMBRA
marked Finotti, *a slow form of legal homicide. How
can you tell ^ ’
do not know the details; I am confident that the
father of Count Csesar would be incapable of what you
describe. Moreover, the penalty excites our interest and
our pity ; but the offence ? Who was this woman ? Who
can tell us that ? ’
Donna Marina turned upon him.
* And you ? ’ she cried in a voice broken with passion.
* Who are you ? Who can even tell us your real name ?
We have to guess 1 ’
She flung open the door leading to the west wing of
the castle, and disappeared.
Medusa herself could hardly have turned a group of
men to stone more effectually.
Silla felt that he must say something, but the words
failed him. It seemed to him as though he had received
a heavy blow on the head from a bludgeon, and was reel-
ing under it. At length, with an effort, he collected him-
self.
‘ Gentlemen,^ said he, ‘ I feel that an insult has been
hurled at me ; but the nature of it I do not under-
stand.'
His tone, his bearing, his eyes expressed what his
words did not ; ‘ If you understand, tell me.'
The commendatori and the doctor protested in silence,
by gestures, that they knew nothing. The others stood
open-mouthed.
Steinegge drew Silla's arm through his and led him
away, saying, ‘ Now you know her, now you know her.’
The municipal councillors of R ^ and the doctor,
lost no time in retiring.
‘A pretty finale,’ remarked Vezza, when the first shock
of surprise had passed away.
SCANDAL
145
* Did you understand ? ’
‘ I should think so,’ replidd Finotti. ‘ It’s as clear as
water.’
^ Muddy water.’
* Nonsense! Do you want me to tell you? That
young man there, who suddenly appeared at the castle like
a man fallen from the clouds, is a peccadillo of the Count’s.
His presence here has been a severe trial to the young lady.
That one can understand. Fancy seeing one’s uncle
being led away from one beneath one’s eyes * The only
thing to put things right would be the usual matrimonial
scheme, and this I would wager was Caesar’s idea, but
whether it be at Paris, or at Milan, or in the country of
the moon, a “ but ” always turns up in the form of an im-
possible ideal. He may be fair, he may be dark, he may
be anything you please; but he’s there. And so the
scheme is rejected ; war to the knife 1 You under-
stand ^ ’
^ You know nothing whatever about it, my dear fellow.
Can one venture on a cigar here, do you think ? ’ And
Vezza amused himself by lighting a cigar, over which he
wasted half a dozen matches.
‘ Yes, Mina Pernitti Silla, a beautiful woman, a mosi
beautiful woman, was, it is true, a fnend of Caesar’s, but a
fnend — ! ’
The commendatore sent up a puff of smoke, following
its course with his eyes while his right hand traced
hieroglyphics m the air.
‘ She was the daughter,’ he continued, ‘ of a judge oi:
the Court of Appeal of Tyrol. You know, I suppose, that
Caesar was expelled from Lombardy in 1831 ? I fancy
he wanted to liberate Italy in order to be in a better
position to marry the blonde Tyrolese. She was then
about two-and twenty. Her father would have killed her
K
146
MALOMBRA
rather than give her to a Liberal. Poor girl, she remained
firm, and kept her resolve not to marry, until she was
twenty-six. Her father was fierce as a mastiff, and I
believe ill-treated her. One fine day she gave way and
accepted a vile cur of an Austrian, who made money in
trade and then squandered it all on himself. He weni
away with the Germans in 1859, and must have died at
Leybach. Mina and Csesar never met again, but they
corresponded frequently, not about love, not the least
allusion to it.
* He is a Jansenist who does not go to Mass.
‘ She used to write to him about her boy, and to ask
his advice. She died in 1858, and I learned all this
later from a friend of hers. I put it to you whether all
this is sufiSciently dear. What, I ask you, has the
Marchesina di Malombra to fear, and what reasons had
she — ’
‘ Yes, yes, it is true enough, no doubt. What it means
is that she does not understand the affair in this light.
Besides, what is the use of thinking to find reasons inside
such a pretty little head ? Great heavens ! don't you see
what eyes she has ? All reason and all folly are centred
there. Why, to be loved for one hour by a woman so
beautiful and so insolent would make one mad with joy.'
* I don't admire her,' said the man of letters ; * she is
too thin.'
The honourable deputy refuted this criticism with such
scientific arguments that we are compelled to omit them
from a work of art.
CHAPTER VIII
OUT IN THE STORM
* Shall I light the lamp ? ’ said Steinegge, in a low
voice.
It was late at night. For a long time Steinegge and
Silla had been sitting in the latter's room facing one
another without speaking. It was as though they were
watching in a chamber of death.
Steinegge rose, silently lighted a candle, and sat down
again.
Silla was sitting with his arms crossed, his head
resting on his breast, his eyes fixed on the ground.
Stemegge was ill at ease ; he looked at Silla, looked at
the candle, looked at the ceiling, threw one leg over the
other and then hastily removed it to its former position.
‘ It will soon be time to go downstairs,’ he remarked.
* I fancy the Count has been back some time.’
Silla made no reply.
Steinegge waited for a minute, then rose, took up the
candle and went slowly towards the door.
His companion did not stir.
Steinegge looked at him, uttered an * ah ! ’ of acquies-
cence, put down the light and planted himself in front of
him. * I am a stupid fellow, and the words don’t come
when I want them, but I am your friend. I swear to
147
148
MALOMBRA
you that if I could take your place and relieve you of
the poniard thrust that has struck your heart, I would
gladly do so to see you happy again/
Silla rose and grasped both his hands.
Steinegge, growing red with embarrassment, said, ‘ Oh,
no — Signor Silla — I thank you — ’ and slowly released
his hands. Misfortune, misery, the bitterness of life
had humbled him to the extent of rendering him shy of
any familiarity on the part of those to whom he attri-
buted a higher social position than his own.
‘One requires a little philosophy,’ he said. ‘One
ought to despise this woman. Do you think that she
has not insulted me ten, ay, twenty times ? Don’t you
remember how she spoke to me this evening as though
I were a servant ? I despised her for it. She has no
heart, not the least bit of one. You Italians say that
she is an honest woman, because she does not throw
away her self-respect, but I declare that this creature,
this creature (Steinegge hissed out the words with fury)
is a low woman. She insults me because I am poor,
she insults you from the lust of gold.’
‘ From lust of gold ? ’
‘Yes. She imagines that the Count wishes to dis
inherit her in your favour.’
Silla covered his face with his hands.
‘ You mean,’ he said, ‘ she really wished to say — ^
‘ Quite so/
‘But I don’t understand,’ cried Silla.
‘Ah ! Everyone here said the same thing.*
‘ Everyone here ? ’
After a long silence Silla walked slowly up to Steinegge,
laid his hands on his shoulders, and said, in a sad, calm
voice, —
^Anddoyou believe that if there were a blot upon
OUT IN THE STORM
149
the most sacred of my memories that I should have
stayed here to testify to it ? ’
never believed that story. The Count would
never have asked you here. I know the Count very
well.^
‘ Steinegge,’ rejoined SiUa, ‘ if we part now never to
meet again, as may happen, think of me as a man, not
persecuted indeed, as you are, but mocked at, continu-
ally, bitterly mocked at by one who has left thia^world,
and who takes pleasure in seeing me suffering and
struggling ; as boys do with a butterfly which they have
thrown into the water with its wings crushed. I was
born with a warm heart, and neither the power nor the
art to make myself beloved, with a spirit thirsting for
renown, and neither the power nor the skill to acquire
it. I was born rich, and as a young man, just when I
began to appreciate the advantages of my position, I was
plunged into poverty. Only recently I have been
promised quiet and work and friendship, the very things
that my heart desires, for ambition I have renounced;
and now I am robbed of all three at one blow. My
mother was a saint whom I adored, and I am the cause
of her memory being insulted ; I, who never thought
such a calumny could exist, because I am hopelessly
inexperienced and know nothing of the world. To
express the matter in two words, I am unfit to live, and
every day convinces me more strongly of the fact. Un-
fortunately, I have an iron constitution! I tell you
these things, my dear Steinegge, because I am fond of
you, and I want you to think of me when I am gone.
It is the first time that I have spoken of them to any-
body. Tell me, doesn’t the whole thmg seem a
mockery? And yet,’ and here Silla’s eyes sparkled and
bis voice quivered, ‘ it is not so. I have within me the
MALOMBRA
ISO
force to bear up against any disappointment and any
affliction ; and this force is natural to me, not acquired.
I shall make use of it, in fighting the battle of life, in
fighting with myself, in fighting against the terrible de-
spondency that from time to time assails me ; and I am
convinced that God will make use of me for some — ’
There was a knock at the door.
The Count sen his compliments to Silla and hoped
he would join the company downstairs. Silla, in turn,
begged Steinegge to o in his stead, and to make his
excuses on the ground of urgent correspondence requir-
ing immediate attention
Steinegge went out, lost in thought. What in the
world did Signor Silla intend to do ?
The same question was actively discussed at great
length in the lower regions of the castle. Mademoiselle
Fanny had, in the first place, informed her fellow
domestics of the ‘ fine lesson ' which her ladyship had
given ‘the little snob in the black coat,’ who had com-
mitted the grave offence, in Fanny’s eyes, of failing to
notice that these were beautiful. The cook had heard
a good deal from the municipal councillors, with some
of whom he had drunk a pint, after the scene on the
terrace, at hump-backed Cecchina’s. He now related
how Silla had turned pale as a ghost and had become
ali of a tremble.
‘Who knows, Paolo,’ remarked Fanny, ‘who knows
what will happen if those two find themselves alone
together. Why, her ladyship does not know what fear
is 1’
Hereupon someone stated that Signor Silla had retired
for the evening to his room, and that ‘the German,’ who
had been with him for a time, had come out much
agitated. Another significant fact was that Silla had
OUT IN THE STORM 151
sent for his razors, which the gardener was to have taken
to Como to be set.
‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ said Fanny, ‘if the idiot
were to put an end to himself without giving a halfpenny
in tips.’
‘Hush! Let us be going!’ replied Giovanna. ‘If
the master were to know about the things we are saying 1
Especially your last remark • ’
‘ It’s no affair of mine,’ rejoined Fanny. ‘ I wouldn’t
condescend to even sew on a button for him. I have
seen his beggarly outfit. Why, the old doctor is a
smarter man than he * ’ As she mentioned the doctor,
Fanny gave a little laugh.
‘Poor old doctor,’ said she, and then another little
laugh, then another, then another ; and she refused to
say what set her laughing. In the drawing-room also
the thoughts of the assembled guests were occupied with
Silla and his future. Nobody mentioned the subject,
because Donna Marina was present, and the Count knew
nothing of what had taken place. The latter indeed
was puzzled as to how there could be urgent letters to
write twelve hours before post time, but he held his
tongue. Marina was in high spirits. Her voice was
soft and musical, but in the silvery laugh which fre-
quently rang out could be heard a note of triumph, like
the little bell of a hobgoblin lurking in a forest glade.
From time to time she and Fanny laughed together
from no apparent cause. They laughed heartily when
the doctor went away. In fact Marina did not seem to
care a jot for Silla’s absence.
The hours passed and the moon gradually rose behind
the big clouds lying banked up in the east, which gradu-
ally broke up and formed a silvery fringe around the
queen of night, and then again reformed. In the brief
152
MALOMBRA
interval she flashed upon the windows of Silla’s chamber,
and scanned it through and through.
He was writing. The sound of his pen passing rapidly
across the paper was interrupted by passionate mono-
logues, and by rarer intervals of silence. Page followed
upon page. His pen must have covered a dozen of
them before it stopped. Silla reread what he had
TOtten, and then began to reflect.
‘No,’ he said, and tore up the manuscript. He took
another sheet of paper. This time his pen no longer
flowed easily. His thoughts were not in harmony with
the expression of them. Half-past eleven struck. Silla
opened the window and called to Steinegge. He had
heard him walking about.
‘Come down at once,’ he said
Steinegge hurried to the window, and in the first gen-
erous impulse seemed about to jump down into the
balcony below. Then he disappeared, and in less than
no time was in Silla’s room with his frock-coat huddled
on anyhow, and without his trousers. At that moment
it struck neither him nor Silla that his appearance was
ridiculous,
Silla went up to him.
* I am going away,’ he said.
‘ Going away ? When ? ’
‘Now.’
‘Now?’
‘Do you think I could pass another night beneath
this roof? ’
Steinegge made no reply.
‘ I am going on foot to where I shall await the early
train to Milan. Will you be so good as to hand this
letter to the Count? And here is a small sum of money
which I will ask you to distribute, at your discretion,
OUT IN THE STORM
153
among the servants. I have luckily not had my books
sent here; but I am leaving a box behind me. Will
you be so good as to send it after me ? '
Steinegge nodded his head; but he was unable to
speak He had a choking sensation at the throat.
‘ Thank you. When you have sent it olf, kindly let
me know by a letter addressed Post Restante, Milan, and
put the key inside. I leave the key because there are
still some odds and ends of mine not packed up.'
‘But do you really mean that you are going like
this ? '
really mean that I am going like this. What do
you think I have told the Count I have told him that
my views and his are so antagonistic that I cannot col-
laborate with him ; and that, in order to avoid painful
explanations and the risk of yielding to pei suasion, I am
going away m this fashion, beggmg him to forgive me
and to accept my lasting gratitude. A letter courteous
in form and mean in character, a letter which will irntate
him and set him against me. As for her, I don't con-
descend to attack her. I wrote to her, and then tore the
letter up. She will understand that I have given her my
answer by snapping asunder the ties which gave her a
pretext to insult me. The others, I think, will under-
stand also.'
‘Through this woman,’ growled Steinegge, clenching
his fists.
‘But you do not know the worst,’ murmured Silla.
You don't know what a vile thing I am. I will tell
you. The mere thought of pressing that woman's cheek
with my lips sends a cold shiver through me, makes my
brain reel. Is that love ? I know not, I think not ; but
it would go hard with me if I had not that within me
which suffices to crush out my ignommious resentment
154
MALOMBRA
at being hated by her. Yes, that is how things stand.
You look amazed and I am not surprised. Still, I am
man enough to stir my cowardly self into action and to
make it obey me. I am going away. Shake hands;
nay more, embrace me.'
Steinegge could only utter three stifled *Ohs.’ He
embraced Silla with a severe frown, and the expansive
affection of a father. He then produced a shabby old
cigar-case, and offered it with both hands to his friend.
The later looked at it in astonishment.
‘Give me yours,' said Steinegge.
Silla produced a case even older and shabbier than the
first one. They exchanged them in silence. Before he
left, Silla thought passionately of his mother ; it seemed
to him that the angel above her bed was praying for him,
and invoking Heaven's guidance in the dark path that
lay before him.
A window on the ground floor gave him access to the
courtyard. He would not permit Steinegge to go with
him, but pressed his hand, and having crossed the
treacherous gravel on tip-toe, slowly ascended the stone
steps between the cypresses, halting in the deep slanting
shadows which broke with their heavy outlines the shin-
ing surface of the moon-lit stones.
Then he turned round to look at the severe outline of
the ancient castle, which he was leaving, in all human pro-
bability, for ever. He listened to the sad murmur of the
fountain in the courtyard, to the solemn voice of the deep
bubbling spnng above him. Both voices called to him, the
former more feverishly, the latter more eloquently. From
where he stood he could not see her window, but he
looked down on the angle of the roof beneath which the
unknown chamber lay, and his imagination summoned
up its minutest details with the rapidity and the mtense
OUT IN THE STORM
ISS
energy of passion. He breathed the warm, scented air,
saw the moonbeams dart through the eastern lattice and
flood the floor with light, then touch a shining mass of
rich garments in disarray, shimmer above a gold hairpin
fallen to the ground, above the brown pointed toes of a
little curved shoe, glide on to the white couch, kiss a deli-
cate hand and expire in feeble flashes of light along the
fine moulded arm. At this point the picture became
clouded over, a nervous paroxysm shook his frame, and,
as though to escape from it, he hastily resumed his way
It is not to be marvelled that he missed it. In good
sooth it was no easy matter among so many paths, all
disappearing amongst the regular rows of vines, to select
the one which led to the iron gate. Silla reflected that
he was not absolutely certain to find the key, which was
usually placed, though not always, m a hole in the
boundary wall, and he remembered that he ought to be
near to another exit which was sometimes used by the
peasants who worked in the vineyards. He came upon
it. The boundary wall had fallen into ruins at this points
and from the neighbouring field a mulberry tree spread
out its branches across the breach. Silla was quickly
on the other side, and but a few paces from a landing-
place used by the peasant cultivators scattered along the
lake. A gently sloping pathway leads from this point
down to a dip in the valley, where it meets the high road,
touching in its course the edge of the lake, then hiding
away among hedges and low boundary walls, then
cutting across some grassy hills, dotted here and there
with olive trees.
As he walked along, Silla in vam endeavoured to fix
his thoughts on the future, on the life of sacrifice and
stern endeavour which awaited him. He cursed the
wanton voices of the night and the voluptuous moon now
MALOMBRA
156
high in the clear vault of heaven. He rested his burning
brow against the stem of an olive tree, without knowing
what he was about. The rough cold touch restored him
to his senses and self-control, as cold steel might have
done.
The lightning began to play, and Silla quickly resumed
his journey. In front of him the lowering storm-clouds
were moving up from the east, were spreading along the
mountains and upwards through the sky, their full crests
waving hither and thither like a wild sea that would
mount up to the moon itself. The silent flashes of light-
ning shot out unceasingly towards her pale fugitive light.
Suddenly Silla stands still and listens.
He hears the subdued murmur of the lake lapping
against the stones, the melancholy hoot of the owl in the
copse on the opposite shore, the chirping of the grass-
hoppers and the soft whisper of the breeze as it stirs the
dense foliage of the vines and the silver-grey leaves of
the olives.
Nothing else?
Yes, the sound of two oars cutting the water with long,
cautious strokes. Whether near at hand or far off it is
not easy to say ; on the lake, at that hour, it needs an ex-
pert to judge the distances of sounds.
The sound of oars ceases.
It is followed by the harsh noise of a keel grating upon
the flints along the shore. Even the grasshoppers are
listening. Then all is silence. The grasshoppers renew
their chirping, joining it to the cry of the distant owl and
the murmur of the lake lapping against the stones. Silla
pushed forwards. The path quickly led down to the
sandy shore of a little bay, at the other end of which large
black masses of stone stood out above the water. Above
them, among the wild fig trees and briars, rose a little
OUT IN THE STORM 157
chapel, and at the foot of the chapel stood out the fine
black lines of a boat. There must then be a passage be-
tween the rocks. There was no other boat but the
DaH upon the lake, and Silla knew this. But who had
come in the Dart ?
He thought of Rico and stood still in order to avoid
discovery. He saw a shadowy form rise up among the
shrubs behind the chapel, run down the hill and dis-
appear. A moment later one heard a silvery little laugh.
It was impossible not to recognise it. Donna Marina !
Silla instinctively rushed forwards, heard a cry of terror,
saw the vanishing form re-appear at the chapel and then
seek refuge among the shrubs, the while Donna Manna
was vainly calling, ‘ Doctor, doctor.^ Silla recognised the
doctor but did not wait to consider, even for an instant,
how he came to be there. He heard the grating of the
keel as it pushed off from the shore, and ran up to the
chapel just as the boat was quietly passing out of the
channel between the rocks, and Marina, putting down the
oar with which she had been polling it, was engaged in
readjusting her gloves. ‘ Stop 1 ' cried Silla from the
highest pomt of one of the rocks.
Manna uttered a cry and seized both oars.
It was impossible to allow her to leave in this manner.
At the foot of the rock there were only a few mches of
w^ater. Silla jumped down and caught hold of the boat’s
chain. Marina made two desperate strokes, but the
Dart soon swung round in obedience to the iron hand
which held her.
‘ You must listen to me now,’ said the young man.
‘ You will tell me first,’ replied Marina, ‘ whether the
noble part which you have played to-night is one of your
ordinary pastimes, or whether you are acting under my
uncle’s orders.’
MALOMBRA
158
* You must have lived among queer people, Marchesina.
Are these the traits of noble birth? In that case I
assure you that my own origin is the more noble ; and I
have some reason to hope that my name will be honour-
ably remembered when yours is forgotten.*
Jumping on to a jutting rock, his hat off, Silla com-
manded the boat and the agitated woman in it.
Manna fought for liberty, and beat the water furiously
with one oar.
‘Let us proceed to the second act,* she cried. * In the
meanwhile, you are a coward to keep me here by
force.*
SiUa let go the chain. ‘ You can go,* he cried, ‘ you can
go if you have the heart to do so. Only please under-
stand that I am playing no comedy, only an obscure
melodrama, the second act of which does not interest
you.*
‘ And the first one does ? * rejoined Marina, dropping
the oars and crossing her arms.
‘ The second act,* Silla continued, without noticing the
interruption, * does not take place here. Rest assured on
that point. From this evening onwards, you will see
neither the drama nor the hero of it. If, in the ingenu-
ousness of your heart you have suspected me to be more
than a mere friend to your uncle, you can set your mind
at rest. Perhaps I am not even a friend now ; for but a
few minutes since I have, like a malefactor, secretly left
his hospitable roof under which, in some low comer, this
\nle calumny had its being. If, however, you feared,* and
here Silla’s voice trembled, ‘if you feared some sinister
design in connection with Donna Manna and Corrado
Silla you have been grievously misinformed. If the
Count had mentioned the subject to me I should have
quickly disillusioned him. For the woman I should
OUT IN THE STORM 159
adore would be one capable of despising wealth and rank.
And now, Marchesina, I wish you — '
‘ One word/ cried Marina, urging the boat nearer with
two strokes of the oar, for a sudden breeze was gradually
driving her into the open. ‘Your fantastic melodrama
won’t go down. You are good enough to cast yourself
for an heroic part. So far so good ; but then come the
cntics, Signor Silla. Now, where did you discover, for
example, that I am a suspicious heiress ? Very ridiculous,
you know. Did you never notice how much attention I
pay my uncle? And how dare you speak of designs
upon my person ? Do you imagine I should trouble my
head about anything that you and my uncle might fool-
ishly thmk or say ? ’
Meanwhile, the Dart was again making for the open
before the freshening breeze. Marina gave another
stroke and turned round towards Silla. The boat made
way for a moment against the wind, against the waves
now running strong beneath the keel, and then suddenly
turned over, driven on to its left side. The light of the
moon was rapidly failing. Swift fleecy clouds like flecks
of foam had come up to it, had overpassed it; now the
big storm clouds caught it up and the moon was lost in
the great bank, and seemed like a struggling beacon on
the point of going out-
* Then,’ cried Silla, ‘ why — ^
The rest of the words were lost in the sudden hubbub
of the waves. A violent squall threw the Dart on to the
rock on which he stood.
‘ Get on shore,’ he cried as he bent down and caught
hold of the gunwale of the boat to prevent her being
dashed against the rock, ‘ Quick.’
‘ No, shove off ! I am going home.’
Although they were so near as to be able to touch one
i6o MALOMBRA
another, it was with difficulty that they could make each
other hear. The waves, increased suddenly in size to an
extraordinary extent, thundered upon the beach with a
deafening crash ; the helm, the chain, the oars of the
boat, as it rocked wildly hither and tluther, creaked and
groaned. Silla got a foothold in the bow, pushed off
from the rock with one desperate shove and fell into the
bottom of the boat.
‘Take the helm,’ he shouted, seizing the two oars.
‘ Out into the open against the wind.’ Marina obeyed
the orders, sittmg opposite to him tightly grasping the
tiller-ropes.
The sky was now as black as pitch, and nothing could
be seen. One could hear the waves dashing upon the
rocks and on to the stony beach. Here was where the
danger lay. The Dart, urged forward too vigorously,
rose at the bow above the waves and then splashed down
into them with a dull, heavy thud ; it passed through the
tallest waves like a knife, and then the foaming crests
passed over it, running along the boat from stem to stern.
The first time this happened, Marina, at the sound of the
rushing water, hastily raised her feet and rested them on
Silla’s. At the same moment a blinding flash of lightmng
shot across the sky, lighting up vividly the greyish white
lake and the big mountains, on which each stone and
plant stood out in the searching glare. There flashed
before Silla the apparition of Marina, with her hair float-
ing in the gale and her eyes fixed on his. It was already
dark again as he felt his heart beating with the recollection
of that sight. And the little feet were pressing his ;
pressing harder as the boat rose in the air, then slipping
away and again pressing against his. The two oars
broke to pieces in his hands. He got out the other two
from the bottom of the boat and rowed furiously, because
OUT m THE STORM
l6i
the night, the voices of Nature at its wildest, that burning
touch, that unexpected glance, all cned out to him that
he was a miserable creature. The flashes of lightning
showed her to him every moment, there before him,
her bosom heaving, her face bending forwards towards
his. It was impossible to go on. With a violent effort
he struggled to his feet and passed to another seat nearer
the bow.
‘ Why ? ’ said she.
Even in her voice there was a tremor, an electric thnll
in harmony with the storm.
Silla made no reply, and Marina must have understood,
for she did not repeat the question. By the lightning
flashes they could see a dense white cloud in the west
and a furious storm of rain. But it did not come nearer ;
the fury of the wind and waves rapidly diminished.
‘ You can turn her head,^ said Silla in a faint voice, and
nodding his head. ‘ The castle is over there.’
Marina did not alter the course at once, she seemed to
hesitate.
‘ Your maid is waiting for you ? ’
‘Yesi’
‘ In that case we will go back to the chapel. In ten
minutes the lake will be quite calm. I will get off
there.’
‘No,’ she replied, ‘Fanny is not waiting for me. She
is asleep.’
She turned the Darfs head towards the castle.
Neither of the two spoke another word. When they
reached the castle it was not so dark, and the wind
had died away, but the waves were still thundering
against the walls, so as to drown aJl sound of the
boat’s passage through the water.
Silla began to feel more calm. They passed by the
L
MALOMBRA
162
loggia, and the sight of it restored him to his haughty
indifference.
‘ You told me this morning,’ he said, ‘ that I did not
know you. On the contrary, I know you very well’
Marina seemed to think that he was alluding to the
scene which took place there, and made no reply
‘ Take care how you make for the landing-place,’ she
said, after a moment’s silence. ‘ I am letting go of the
ropes.’
SiUa rowed in with great care. Only, as they slowly
neared the entrance, she replied in a low voice, ‘ How can
you pretend to know me ? ’
But now they had to take care not to run into the
other boat, and to bring the Dart well alongside the
landing-steps. It was very dark. The Dart ran aground
in the sand and stuck fast Silla got out, and with his
hand felt along the slimy wall of the rock out of which
the landing-place was cut, and managed to find the flight
of steps which leads to the courtyard and thence to the
right wing of the castle.
Here axe the steps,’ he said to Marina, holding out
his hand to help her, and she, as she took it, repeated, —
‘ How can you pretend to know me ? ’ With this she
leapt on shore, but, catching her foot in the chain, fell
into Silla’s arms. He felt the soft touch of her cheek on
his, he pressed to his heart in one wild, passionate
embrace the slight figure in the soft, clinging robes,
whispered one word in her ear, and, allowing her to
glide to the ground, dashed up the steps and away
across the courtyard.
Marina remained motionless, with her arms stretched
out before her.
It was no dream, it was no illusion, there was no room
for doubt j Silla had whispered ‘ Cecilia.’
CHAPTER IX
THE LETTER BAG
From Donna Marina di Malombra to Signora Giuba
de Bella.
‘ 2 .d September 1864.
‘ I FANCY I have discovered the name of the author of
A Dream, I want to know for certain, and also to find
out his address. I give you my word that it is not with
a view to go and call on him * Let loose, I beg of you,
all your courtiers and henchmen in pursuit. With a
little tact, one ought to be able to find out everythmg at
V & Co.’s, the Printers. Marina.’
From Signora Giulia de Bella to Donna Marina
di Malombra.
‘ Varese, September.
* So he has made an impression t All my courtiers
have gone mto the country, and yesterday somebody told
me that V & Co. closed their doors a month ago. I
should be inclined to advise you to turn over a new leaf.
But if I hear anything I promise to let you know,
‘ Giulia.’
163
THE RED AND BLACK FAN
CHAPTER I
NEWS FROM NASSAU
On the 6th of September the castle was in a state of
expectation. The sparse blades of grass which timidly
peeped up here and there through the red gravel in the
court had all disappeared. A grand array of large pots
drawn up in lines displayed a noble show of flowers
and foliage plants; they reminded one of state dig-
nitaries and dames awaiting a royal procession. The
common crowd, the jessamines and other creepers
covering the walls, looked down with a thousand eyes
upon the scene.
For the present, Steinegge, elegantly attired, walked
alone, with much dignity, amid the respectful and ex-
pectant crowd, occasionally stopping to see whether
anyone had appeared on the staircase, and then ex-
changing a word or two through the barred windows
of the kitchen in the basement with Paolo, who could
be seen passing backwards and forwards from one small
stove to another, behind the bars, like a big, white
bear.
Steinegge looked at the clock. It was half-past one.
The Count had said that he would return from the
station with the Salvadors about that time. Steinegge,
167
i6S
MALOMBRA
with a respectful expression on his face, began to ascend
the steps.
They had arrived. For there was the Count’s broad-
brimmed hat, which almost covered his servant as well
as himself. But the Countess Fosca? and Count
Nepo?
Nobody had arrived by the train from Milan. Count
Csesar, in a violent rage with his cousm Fosca, his
cousin Nepo, with all the cousins in the world, took
occasion to scold the cook, ordered the guests’ rooms
to be dismantled, and flew into a temper with Stemegge
for coming to meet him and with Marina for stopping
away. During these diatribes, the Dart was far away
on the lake, shining in the sun and hurrying its course
not a bit. It pleased the Count to let off steam in this
fashion. Half an hour later he cheered up the dis-
mayed Steinegge with a few kindly words, and counter-
manded the orders given ab irato to Giovanna. With
Marina things took a different course. Five days had
passed since the unexpected departure of Silla, and
the Count and his niece had not spoken a word to each
other. He had been on the point of starting for Milan ;
then, changing his mind, possibly on account of the
Salvadors’ visit, he had written to Silla instead. The
arrival of his guests had given him a great deal to do.
He had even accomplished the miracle of going to
the station to meet them. Giovanna began to think
that the Venetian lady and gentleman must be people
of more importance than the King, and the other ser-
vants told the gardener that he need not water the
flowers, for the clouds were certain to fall in before
night.
Marina, during the first four days after Silla’s de-
parture, did not put in an appearance, not even at
NJSWS FROM NASS A U 169
meals. Fanny informed the Count that her ladyship
was suffering from severe nervous headaches; to the
others she confided that her mistress was in a terrible
state of mind, that one could do nothing with her, and
that there were moments when even she could stand
it no longer.
On the day in question, Marina went out in the JDarf,
and appeared at dinner as the Count and Steinegge were
discoursing about Gneist’s work on ^Self-Government,'
of which Steinegge was preparing a prkcis. The Count
went on talking without turning his head, ignoring the
fact that his vis^brvis had risen to his feet and made
a profound bow in the direction of the door. It was
only as they left the table when dinner was over that
he remarked to Marina, with unwonted calmness, —
‘You will do me the favour of coming to my study
in an hour's time.’
Marina looked at him for a moment as though sur-
prised, then answered with an ironical inflection on the
words, —
‘ I will do you the favour.’
She waited nearly an hour and a half, then she sent
Fanny to see whether the Count was in the library.
The answer was that he had been expecting her there
for the last half-hour.
She entered the library, walking slowly, with the air
of one whose mind is wool-gathering, strolled half
round the room towards the door leading to the garden,
and finally sank into an arm-chair facing the enemy.
‘ I must warn you, in the first place,’ began the Count,
‘ that those who do me the honour of living under my
roof have to treat me with civility. My house is not a
prison ; forget yourself once too often, and you will have
to pay the penalty, for I have the weakness of demand
170
MALOMBJ^A
ing, sooner or later, what is owing to me* If you do
not know the coin in which my debtors have to pay
me, I shall be happy to give you a lesson.’
Marina’s eyes flashed and her lips moved.
* Do not answer me,’ thundered the Count.
She sprang to her feet. She wished to oppose him,
to speak, and she was unable to do so. Perhaps too
great a flow of words choked her utterance ; perhaps,
in the moment of breaking out, she feared to disclose
the secret which, in a confused way, she felt must be
kept sacred, against a pre-determined day and hour fixed
by her will and fate.
‘Do not answer me,’ the Count repeated. ‘You hate
me and my house, but it would hardly suit your con-
venience to be asked to leave it at twenty-four hours’
notice. Do not answer me.’
Marina resumed her seat in silence.
‘ You can hardly imagine that I am ignorant of the
gross insult inflicted by you upon my friend Silla, who
has left the house in consequence, and you cannot sup-
pose that, knowing of it, I do not resent it. I do not
know whether human speech is capable of expressing
the feelings with which your action inspires me. Let
it pass, I will not inquire into the secret motives of
your conduct. But one thing is clear, we cannot go
on living together indefinitely. There is an idiotic
phrase, ‘‘ the ties of blood,” I do not imagine that your
blood and mine has two globules in common. Be that
as It may, it is not necessary to tie oneself hand and
foot with these ties. Far better to cut them asunder.
You did not condescend to be at home to-day when
my cousins, the Salvadors, were expected. But I may
inform you that my cousin is a nobleman of name
and wealth, and that he contemplates getting married.
NEIVS FROM MASSAC/ 171
*Ah said Manna, and she smiled as she looked at
the httle white hand which was playing with the arm
of the chair.
'Don’t make melodramatic exclamations. Don’t get
into your head that anybody wishes to force him upon
you. I do not know whether my cousin will admire
the colour of your eyes, or whether the sound of his
voice will touch your heart. Situated as you are, it may
be of use to you to be aware of his intentions. You can
take advantage of them or not, as you may deem best.’
' Thanks. And if I don’t take a fancy to his lordship^
when am I to leave ? ’
Marina had spoken very softly, looking at the rings
on her open hand one after the other; then she
clenched her hand and raised it towards her face as
though she wished to count the blue veins; then,
finally, let it fall and raised two innocent eyes towards
the Count.’
‘But,’ said he, 'when am I to leave? It appears
to me that it is you who, by your conduct, display
a desire to go away. It would, perhaps, be more
honest and straightforward if you were to say, When
can I go ? ’
* No, for I can go when I please. I am of age, and
my means are sufficient to maintain me and an old lady-
companion, who will leave me to myself. When am I to
leave ? I have no desire to go away.’
The Count looked at her in amazement. Those large
limpid eyes disclosed nothing, absolutely nothing. They
awaited a reply.
' You do not wish to go away ? Then you wish that I
should, eh? That would suit your views? But, in
Heaven’s name, speak out. If you do not wish to go
away, what on earth do you wish ? Why do you com-
172
MALOMBRA
port yoiirself towards me as though I were your gaoler ?
What harm have I done you ? ’
* You ? Nothing.’
* "Who then ? Steinegge ? What has Steinegge done ? ’
* He has fnghtened me ’
^ How do you mean frightened you ? ’
^ He IS so ugly.’
The Count sat bolt upright in his chair, grasping the
two arms violently, and turning towards his niece a
knitted brow and flashing eyes.
*Oh,’ said he, ‘if you think to jest with me you make
a mistake ; if your mind is bent on folly you choose the
moment ill. When I am good enough to inquire what
you have to find fault with in my house, it is not for you
to answer me like a French foUe-berglre^ but to discuss
the matter with decorum and in seriousness.’
‘What is the use, if you are resolved that I am to
go?’
‘Who ever said that? I said that we are not suited
to live together, and I indicated a possible method of
changing your abode and your companion. Above all,
I made you understand that in future you must treat me
and my guests with civility, if you did not wish to force
me to take decisive measures.’
Marina had not yet replied when Giovanna entered,
greatly agitated.
‘My lord, the lady and gentleman have come.’
‘Great heavens ! ’ cried the Count, and jumping up he
hastily left the room.
Marina proceeded to transfer herself to the empty
arm-chair, and she lolled about in it with her arms
crossed, her head thrown back, one leg thrown over the
other, and the shining tip of a little black shoe darted
into the air like a defiance.
NEWS FROM NASSAU
m
Downstairs could be heard many voices, or rather one
voice, that flowed on for ever, resonant, penetrating,
and accompanied by other voices, some of them strange
to Manna, and by short laughs expressing respectful
assent
‘ Oh, what a journey ! ’ said the voice. ‘ Oh, what a
country * Oh, what people ! Have you my purse,
Momolo ? I will tell you all about it, my dear creatures.
Ah, who are you, my pretty girl ? Her ladyship^s maid.
Excellent 1 Bravo 1 And where is our beloved Caesar ?
Still taking the air at this hour of the day ? Tell me, pet,
what is your name ? Fanny. Well, Fanny, is that white
stick of a man over there a monk or a cook ? For the
sake of heaven let him make us some soup. You are
tired, Nepo, my son ? Goodness gracious ’ why, there is
Caesar. How old he is, how ugly 1 ^ Muttering the
last words as she covered her face with her hands,
Coimtess Fosca Salvador greeted Count Csesar, who
came hurriedly to meet her, with a face that endeavoured,
but failed, to express hilarity. Worse still was it when
the Countess endeavoured to kiss him, and nearly suffo-
cated him in her voluble embrace. The old gentleman
nearly lost his head. He continued to answer, ‘Yes,
yes, yes,’ in his deepest bass notes, shook Nepo by the
hand, and was on the point of doing the same to the
Countess’s old man-servant, in spite of the latter’s low
bows and his repeated, ‘ Excellency, Excellency.’
‘Well,’ cried the Countess, ‘wait and see old Momolo
kiss me. Unless you wish to; but you are an old
bear.’
Count Csesar was on tenter-hooks. He would will-
ingly have sent the whole company to the right about.
The Countess’s remarks infuriated him. Momolo, and
the two maid servants who stood in silence behind her
i74
MALOMBRA
Excellency, he regarded with marked disfavour. If he
could only have looked into the court and seen, among
the flower-beds, the great heap of boxes, bags and
trunks.
‘ It is an invasion, my dear Count, an invasion,’ re-
marked Nepo, as he walked round the hall, almost feel-
ing his way, being short-sighted, and putting his nose into
eveiy corner to find room for his stick, overcoat and hat.
‘ I really told my mother that it was an abuse of — ’
‘True, he did say so, and I replied, “^Never mind, let
us abuse it What will come of it ? Is not my cousin a
true Caesar ^ ” If I had known that it was such a Sabbath
day’s journey, I must confess I should not have come.
My dear boy, you remember what you said to me this
morning, don’t you?’
^Well, well,’ said the Count, who could stand no more
chatter. ‘We can hear all about that later on. In the
meantime, let me show you upstairs.’
‘ I will come, dear cousin, if I can face the climb. I
recommend to you my dear Momolo and Catte. They
are old, poor dears, with one foot in the grave. But I
should like to have them with me. Apropos^ Catte,
where is that girl? Haven’t you noticed, cousin Bear,
the pretty stranger I’ve brought you ? ’
The young girl dressed m black who stood behind old
Catte was not, then, a second maid. No, she was wait-
ing for the first storm of meeting to quiet down. Now
she stepped forward and addressed the Count in good
Italian, though with a strong foreign accent
‘May I ask you, sir, to inform me whether Captain
Andreas Steinegge lives here ? ’
Her voice was melodious, soft and clear.
‘Certainly, my dear young lady,’ replied the Count in
astonishment. ‘My good friend Steinegge hves here;
NEWS FROM NASSAU
175
though he is not in the habit of calling himself
Captain.’
‘He was a captain in the Lichtenstein Hussars, an
Austrian regiment’
‘ I do not doubt it for a moment, and, indeed, I seem
to remember that Signor Steinegge once mentioned the
fact to me. And you desire to see him ? ’
The young girl’s clear voice seemed to fail her, and
subsided into a whisper,
‘Eh?’ said the Count again, in a kindly tone.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He is out just now, but will be back very shortly.
Will you kindly walk upstairs and await his return ? ’
‘ Thank you. Will he come in by this door ? ’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, with your kind permission, I will await him
here.’
The Count bowed, ordered a lamp to be placed in the
hall, and went upstairs with his guests. The Countess
Fosca informed him that the young lady downstairs had
arrived by the same train as themselves and, like them,
had asked for a fly to take her to the castle. Seeing the
poor girl all alone (and at the station there was not even
a donkey-cart on hire), the Countess had offered to take
her in her carriage if she could manage to get one in
such a place, which she did at last, after immense diffi-
culty. ‘Who she is and what she wants,’ added the
Countess, ‘ I did not gather. Indeed, she said very
little, and, shall I tell you a secret ? My son maintains
that she spoke in Italian, while I thought all along she
was talking German. Quite tired out, too ! I could see
that. What an experience ; what a journey.’
The Count said nothing, ‘ What a hard-hearted brute,’
murmured her Excellency to herself. ‘And Marina?
176
MALOMBRA
\Miere is that wild girl Manna? Perhaps at supper? I
confess myself that — ^
At this moment Marina appeared. She embraced the
Countess, shook hands with Nepo with careless grace,
and then submitted, with a little patient smile, to the
flood of compliments which the Countess poured over
her, holding both her hands and shaking them warmly,
and frequently addressing her as ‘ my dear girl ! my dear,
dear girl ! ’
Meanwhile, his Excellency Nepo was talking with the
Count. His Excellency was a young man about thirty,
with a fair complexion, a large, aquiline nose, awkwardly
flanked by two slight black whiskers, and large prominent
black eyes, the whole being set off by curling black hair
and a fringe of black beard which looked like a false one
on his clear red and white skin. His hands were small
and white. He always smiled when speaking. His quick,
graceful step, with the arms always hanging straight down,
and the high-pitched, rapid utterance, gave him an air of
effeminacy which struck one at once on meeting him. At
Venice he was known as ‘ the carpet knight.’ Yet he was
by no means lacking in talent, or culture, or ambition. He
had left Venice in i860, and had come to Turin to take up
politics as a career. He studied Political Economy and
Constitutional Law, attended the receptions of the few
ministers who entertained, and frequented the chambers
and the political salons of Piazza Gastello. He had some
idea of entering the diplomatic service, but had not yet
gone up for examination. It was considered certain that,
on the liberation of Venice, a district in which he held
large estates would return him as its representative in the
Chamber. And now, while the unfortunate Marina had
to listen to the endless flow of the Countess’s chatter, he,
on bis part, was inflicting upon Count Csesar a history
NEWS EROM NASSAU
177
of his life, of the course of his studies and the direction
of his hopes. The Count, who was a poor hand at dis-
simulation, was listening to the narrative, lolling in his
chair, his chin resting on his breast, his hands in his
pockets, and his legs sprawling out before him ; every
now and then he raised his head and gave the speaker a
look, half astonished and half bored.
At length a footman made the welcome announce-
ment that supper was ready ; Countess Fosca seized her
cousin’s arm. Nepo hastened to offer his to Marina,
who accepted it with a slight nod, still, however, looking
towards the Countess and continuing her conversation
with her. Her arm rested on Nepo’s with sylph-like
lightness ; it hardly seemed to touch his ; as soon as they
entered the dining-room she withdrew it.
Meanwhile, the young girl dressed in black was sitting
in the hall, waiting. She appeared not to hear the
voices and the footsteps overhead, and to take no notice
of the servants who passed backwards and forwards,
calling to one another, laughing among themselves,
sometimes casting inquisitive, suspicious glances at her.
She had placed her portmanteau alongside her, and kept
looking at the door.
A step was heard outside on the gravel; Steinegge
appeared in the doorway. The girl rose to her feet
Steinegge looked at her in surprise for an instant and
then passed on. The young lady made a step forwards,
and said, in a low voice,—
* IcJk hitfe,^
The poor old German, thus taken by surprise, felt his
pulse quicken at those two simple words in the familiar
accent of Nassau. All he could think of in reply was,
‘ metn Fraukin I ’ and with that he held out both his
hands.
M
I7S
MALOMBRA
^Are you/ the girl went on in German, her voice
quivering, ‘ are you Captain Andreas Gotthold Stemegge,
of Nassau ? '
‘Yes, yes/
* I believe your family used to live there ? ’
‘Yes, they did/
‘ I brmg news/
‘ News ? News of my little girl ? Ob, my dear young
lady 1 ’
He clasped his hands as though before a saint. His
eyes sparkled, his lips moved convulsively, his whole
person expressed one uncontrollable desire. Countess
Fosca had spoken truly when she said that the young
lady was tired out. She now turned deadly pale, and as
Stemegge anxiously placed his arm about her waist,
murmured faintly, —
* It is nothing ; some fresh air.’
He carried, rather than accompanied, her out, seated
her on a chair, and then, a prey to a thousand fears and
dreading to hear from her lips every kind of bad news,
possibly the worst of all, he took both her hands in his
and spoke in soft, soothing tones to his young, unknown
countrywoman, a stranger in a sttange land.
His memory brought to him tender expressions used
in years gone by, sacred terms of paternal love unused
for years, and now invested with a semi-religious character
by the respectful form in which they were couched.
Was it that, taking courage, she did not hear the formal
terms, and heard only, ^ Mein Kind, my child ?’ Had
she ceased to remember the first words they had inter-
changed, or did his affectionate manner make her believe
that her secret was known ? She threw her arms round
Steme^e’s neck and burst into tears.
Incredible as it may seem, Stemegge at first failed to
NE WS FROM NASS A U
m
understand. He had always kept a lively recollection of
his little girl as he had left her at eight years old, a slight,
little figure with large eyes and long, fair hair. The girFs
action and her burst of tears said to him, ‘ It is she,’ but
he understood and failed to understand at the same
time; he was unable, in so short a time, to grasp so
complete a transformation.
‘ Oh, father ! ’ she said, half tenderly, half reproach-
fully.
Then for the first time his heart and his intelligence
began to act together. With broken, incoherent phrases
he knelt at his child’s feet, took one of her hands in his
and pressed it to his lips. With the infinite happiness
which overwhelmed him, he felt also a humble sense of
gratitude beyond bounds.
‘ Edith, darling, darling Edith, my own little girl,’ he
said in choking tones. ‘Are you really Edith? Can it
really be you ? ’
Out of charity to poor Steinegge we will not repeat
all the absurd things he said durmg those first happy
moments.
Sudden joy perturbs thought, as some strong sweet
liquors perturb clear water.
Edith remained silent. She replied to her father by
pressing his big hand passionately with her nervous
ones.
A stream of light shone out through an open door.
‘Father,’ said Edith, suddenly, ‘you must introduce
me.’
Steinegge got up unwillingly. He would have taken
no notice of that impertinent light; he would have
remained there all night alone with his child, and he did
not see that there was any need to introduce her at
once. He did not know, and his loyal nature was in-
i8o
MALOMBRA
capable of imagining, the false, perfidious statements
whispered in his daughter’s ear about him. Edith had
refused to credit them, yet they had left some painful
doubts in her mind; she feared at least that in this
strange house they might possibly think ill of her father.
In truth, she knew the world better than he who had seen
so much of it.
They entered the room, the daughter leaning on her
father’s arm. The inquisitive Fanny stood at the door
with a candle in her hand.
‘ Good evening,’ said Edith.
Fanny, who had no high regard for the old German,
ventured on a foolish smile when Edith addressed her.
But the smile quickly died away, and she replied with a
graceful curtsey and said nothing.
* How on earth,’ thought she to herself, ‘ can the old
Deutscher ” know a young lady like that ? ’
She had noticed the refined beauty of the girl’s face
and the elegance of her figure ; had noticed her walk,
and the manner of bowing, her soft low voice, the severe
simplicity of her dress, and, knowing a lady when she
saw one, had formed a favourable opinion of Edith.
* Get out of the way,’ said Steinegge.
Fanny looked at him in amazement. Where had he
acquired such self-confidence ? Usually he hardly ven-
tured to even ask a servant to do anything. Now he
seemed to have grown taller, and he walked upright like
a soldier with a queen upon his arm, Fanny made
way.
Steinegge introduced his daughter without the ob-
sequious humility usual with one who introduces a
relation to his social superiors. Count Nepo and Donna
Marina were extremely cold. Count Caesar was cordial.
He rose quickly, grasped the young girl’s hand with
NJSWS FROM NASSAU
iSi
unaffected warmth, and in his deep voice talked kindly
to her of his esteem and friendship for her father.
Countess Fosca asked for explanations first from one
and then from another, and seemed quite unable to grasp
the situation. When she did, ‘ What a curious thing ^ ^
said she, ‘ what a curious thing 1 ^ And she never left
off making exclamations of surprise, offering congratula-
tions and asking questions of every kind
‘Why do you sit so far away, my sweet child?’ she
said to Edith. ‘ One can’t sup off joy, you know, and
after supper you will be even fonder of papa than you
are now. Come over here, pet, come over here.’
Edith gently excused herself. The Count, guessing
that father and child desired to be alone, remarked that
probably the traveller required rest above all things, and
that some supper could be sent up to her later on if she
required it.
Giovanni conducted Edith to her room hard by her
father’s. The latter kept walking up and down the pass-
age : and went in and out of his room, talking apparently
to the walls, the floor, and to the ceiling ; now and then
stopping to listen to the footsteps and the voices of the
two women in the next room with a troubled and
anxious expression on his face, as though he feared the
sounds would cease and everything prove to be only a
dream.
At last Giovanna left the room and went downstairs.
A few minutes later the door opened again and a
voice said quietly, —
‘ Father I ’
Steinegge entered the room and kissed his daughter.
They could not speak, and regarded one another in
silence. She smiled through her tears ; he bit his lip,
there was an agonised look in his eyes, and his face
MALOAIBRA
1S2
twitched convulsively. Edith understood ; she laid her
head upon his breast and murmured, —
‘ She IS happy now, father.'
Poor Steinegge trembled like a leaf, and made extra-
ordinary efforts to restrain his emotion
Edith drew from her bosom a little locket, opened it
and handed it to her father. The latter would not look
at it, and at once returned it to her, saying, ‘ I know,
I know.’ For some minutes he remained silent, and
then, with a firm step, walked up to the lamp and put it
cut.
‘Now, tell me all about yourself,’ he said. ‘Excuse
me puttmg out the light. I wish to listen to the sound
of your voice, and to forget that so many years have
passed. Do you mind ? ’
No, she did not mind. The picture which her memory
bad preserved of her father had, with the lapse of time,
become more pleasing and more refined, the very op-
posite, in fact, of the poor man himself. Even Edith
found something strange m his appearance to which she
had to get accustomed before she could confide in him
freely.
In the dark, however, the kindly voice, the tones of
which she had so often sought to recall, brought back to
her in a flood of memones all the details of her happy
childhood. So Edith also was pleased with the idea of
talking in the dark.
She told him about the twelve years passed with her
maternal grandfather and two married uncles. The
grandfather, who had died a short time since, had been
good enough to her, but had absolutely forbidden her
ever to mention her exiled father’s name. Edith spoke
of these years with tact and delicacy, excusing, as far as
might b^ the deep-rooted antipathies of the old man,
NEWS FROM NASSAU 183
which none of his family had ever taken the trouble to
combat Steinegge did not interrupt her once ; he was
anxious to hear the final portion of her narrative, to
learn how Edith, after leaving all his letters unanswered,
had, after all, decided to abandon country and friends
and go in search of him. This part of her story was the
most difficult and the most painful to tell. Up to the time
of her grandfather’s death she had not received a single
letter from her father. When her grandfather died, she
came across one addressed to her from Turin, from which
she learned that, up to two years before, many other
letters to her had come from various parts of the world,
and that all had been suppressed and destroyed.
Here her narrative was interrupted by an outburst on
the part of Steinegge against the bigots, hypocrites and
rogues who had stabbed him m the dark like assassins.
He stormed, fuming up and down the dark room, and
only came to a standstill after knocking over a couple of
chairs. Then he heard a light footstep approach him,
and felt a small hand on his hps. All his wrath died
away. He kissed the little hand and took it in both his
own.
‘You are right,’ said he, ‘but it is horrible.’
‘ No, it is low. Much too low for us to notice.’
And then she went on to tell how that letter, two
years and a half old, had almost sent her out of her
mind. She knew it by heart. She now repeated the
supplication she had addressed to her uncles to produce
some of the other letters from her father. But all had
disappeared, and not one could be recovered. On their
part they proceeded to sever the slender bonds which,
after the death of her grandfather, had kept Edith in her
mother’s family. Her patrimony was small. The in-
heritance had to be shared among many heirs, and the
MALOMBRA
xS4
family had always lived in great style, and, if anything,
beyond its means. Edith asked for her modest portion,
and her relations gave it to her on unjust conditions,
which she, however, accepted without a word. She at
once started for Italy alone, with her little fortune of six
thousand thalers and a letter of introduction to an
atfacM of the Prussian Legation at Turin, who placed his
services at the disposal of natives of Nassau also. This
gentleman was of great assistance to her, and soon put
her on the right road to find her father. Edith con*
eluded her story by telling how she had met the Sal-
vadors.
This made Steinegge remark that perhaps it was his
duty to go down to the drawing-room before the company
retired for the night He lighted the lamp for Edith,
and asked her to wait for him, as he would be back in a
few minutes. He went hastily downstairs without ob-
serving that the lamp on the landing was out, and that
the only sound to be heard was the ticking of the clock.
As Steinegge passed by there was a whirring sound, and
the great clock struck one. It seemed to call ‘halt.^
Steinegge stood still and lighted a match. The match
went out, and Steinegge stood there with his hand in
mid air. Was it possible ? He thought it was half-past
nine. He went upstairs again on tip-toe, and very gently
opened the door of Edith’s room.
She was standing before the open window, her hands
resting on the back of a chair, her head bowed.
Steinegge stood still ; his breath came with difficulty.
Was it jealousy of the Invisible One beyond the stars to
whom his daughter was addressing her devotions ? He
did not know himself, he could not analyse his feelings.
A cold shadow seemed to have passed between him and
Edith- in his own mind he had never been able to dis-
NEWS FROM NASS A U
iSS
tinguish God from the Priests, of whom he ever spoke
with contempt, although incapable of the least discourtes7
to the most ignorant and bigoted cleric in Christendom*
It had often pained him to reflect that his daughter had
been educated by priests; and now the mere fact of
finding her at prayer made him think that she would
love him less, and discouraged him in regard to the
future.
Edith noticed his entrance and put aside the chair,
saying,—
‘ Come in, father.’
‘ I disturb you ? ’
She was surprised at the sad, submissive tone of the
question, and replied in astonishment in the negative,
raising her eyebrows as though to say, ‘ Why do you ask
me that ? ’ She wished him to stand beside her at the
window.
It was a peaceful night. There was no moon. Moun«
tains and lake were indistinguishable one from the other.
A faint white line could be seen far below ; it was the
avenue which went pass the hot-house and along the
lake. The rest was a confused mist encircled by a grey
sky. From the mist rose the soft, placid murmur of the
lake, now and then broken by the splash of a fish, over
which the waters again closed and resumed their slum-
berous lullaby.
Edith and her father went on talking together for a
long time, in low tones, out of unconscious respect to the
majestic silence of the night. She asked him a thousand
thmgs about the past, of all kinds and sorts, questions
which she had prepared before seeing him, and which now
came out altogether, anyhow. She asked him whether
he had been homesick, and whether he remembered the
paper in her bedroom.
i86
MALOMBRA
Poor Steinegge began to feel a warm glow of love and
pride. One by one he told all his troubles to the weep-
ing girl, and his past sufferings seemed as nothing in the
light of her consoling sympathy
A peal of bells rang out, echoed through the valley, and
was lost in the wooded depths of the mountains. The
next day there was to be a consecration at .
‘ Why do they ring, father ? ^
‘I don’t know, darling,’ replied Steinegge. '‘Die
wissen es, the priests know.’
He had hardly uttered the words when he felt he had
done ill, and he said no more. Edith, too, said nothing.
The silence lasted for some minutes.
Finally Steinegge remarked, ‘ You are tired, Edith, are
you not?’
* A little, father.’
The silvery voice was soft and gentle, as always. Stein-
egge felt happier.
Her voice was always soft and gentle, but a delicate,
hardly distinguishable tone of sadness ran through it
now. When Steinegge had taken farewell of her ynth a
kiss, Edith returned to the window and seemed to engage
in a lengthy colloquy with some bemg beyond the
clouds.
Meanwhile, her father was unable to find repose. Five
or six times did he return to knock at her door, to inquire
whether she had water, whether she had matches, at
what hour she desired to be called, whether they were to
bring her coffee, if she wished for this, if she wished for
that; he felt inclined to he down there outside her door
like a faithful watch-dog ; at length, as the dawn was
about to break, he went away and threw himself down
fully dressed upon his bed.
CHAPTER II
STEINEGGE
A FEW hours later the bells of R were pealing out
far and wide, the glad sound ringing through the cottages
of the hamlet, spreading out across the meadows and
along the hills and up the mountain-sides, till it reached
the poorest and most distant hut. Up the winding road
which led to the church, one observed a line of dark
head-dresses slowly approaching, then disappearing in
the large, black doorway, like ants into an ant heap.
These were followed by crowds of people in quick suc-
cession, all wearing gay head-dresses of red and yellow ;
a pretentious -looking parasol here and there lagging
behind the rest, then a number of black shovel hats
which collected about the porch.
Steinegge and Edith were among those who passed
in and out through the groups of people ; he accompanied
her as far as the church, and went out again the next
moment. He followed the path which winds up the
mountain behmd the church, until he reached some
rocks surrounded by laurel bushes ; there he left the path
and sat down.
At this moment Countess Fosca arrives at the church
door quite out of breath, although she has come to
R by boat, while behind her walk Giovanna and
187
iSS MALOMBRA
Catte and, at a respectful distance, Momolo, who
looks dazed, as though he has been wool-gathering.
Her Excellency is scandalised at the conduct of her
cousin, the Count, who has stayed away from Mass, and
of Marina, who has selected this particular moment to
take Nepo for a walk.
Her Excellency purposes to offer up fervent prayers for
herself and for her son, who is not to blame for missing
Mass, having regard to certain circumstances which the
Almighty will take into consideration. Catching sight
of Edith, the Countess proceeds to a place beside her,
scattering the peasant women right and left, as they make
room for the stout old lady and go and kneel down on
the hard floor outside the pew. The bell rings, the ec-
clesiastics enter in their white robes, the priest half lost
m his long cassock ; the organist places his hands on the
key-board and his feet on the pedals ; the men then file
into church. Five minutes later Marina enters by a side
door, followed by Nepo. Passing along the files of men,
she makes a sign to her cavalier to find a place among
them, and passes on into one of the chapels, Nepo,
dressed in the height of the fashion, chances on a place
between two malodorous peasants ; he makes himself as
small as possible, and turns his milksop face in the
direction of the aisle, looking all down the church in
the attempt to find Marina. He catches sight of Catte
kneeling down beside Giovanna, and of Momolo stand-
ing upnght near the doorway ; catches a glimpse of blue
sky and of green leaves waving in the wind, as though
laughing at him, and then his eyes meet his mother's,
but he fails to catch sight of the cruel fair-one who has
taken the freak of making him agree to stay away from
Mass, only to bring him there after all, and plant him
down in the midst of these musty-smelling plebeians.
STEINEGGE
1S9
She was not giving him a thought. The priest had
intoned Credo in unum Deum^ and the people, with the
organ accompaniment, responded, Patrefn Omnipote^item,
In the mind of Marina a bright light was flashing over
the events of the past month; the discovery of the
manuscript, the mysterious promises to Cecilia ; the look
of lave in the eyes of Silla; the close embrace of his
strong arms ; the probability that he was her unknown
correspondent, brought by fate into her presence, and
the passion, yes, the dull, silent, slow, overmastering
passion which, after so much longing, after so many
vanishing dreams, after so much weariness of empty-
headed flatterers had come to her at last. She felt a
sudden burst of faith and gratitude towards an unknown
god, one certainly unlike him whom the worshippers
near her were adoring ; not so cold a God, not so far
away ; one beneficent and terrible like the sun, the source
of all the warmth and splendour of life.
It was as though God had taken her by the hand and
was bearing her up with his Almighty love. She hid her
face in her hands, and listened to the loud beating of
her heart, while a keen, almost painful sensation traversed
her frame as she thought of the unfailmg fulfilment of
Divine promises, of the predestined passion which would
exalt her body and soul above the turbid stream of our
dull nature.
On this point she entertained no doubt at all. She
reviewed all the difficulties to be surmounted in order to
reach the goal; SiUa’s disappearance without leaving a
clue to his whereabouts, bis contempt for her, perhaps
his forgetfulness of her ; the solitude of her life at the
castle, where chance could not come to her assistance ;
the enmity of her uncle ; and this absurd Nepo. She
took a keen pleasure in conjuring up all the obstacles ;
190
MALOMBRA
all of them of no avail as against God. Patre^ii Omni-
potente7n.
To Him, to Him she abandoned herself. With her
lithe figure bending over the bench before her, she looked
hke a Tentatmi penitente. Countess Fosca glanced at
her out of the corners of her eyes, the while she fanned
herself vigorously and her lips moved quickly in a silent
senes of interminable prayers. She was pleased to
observe this devotional attitude of Marina's, and pic-
tured to herself the humble obeisance with which the
old clerk of Santa Maria Formosa would greet her
daughter-in-law. Nepo, in the meantime, was enduring
agonies \ he repeatedly buried his nose in his perfumed
handkerchief, casting stealthy glances at his two big
neighbours, and when the latter threw themselves on
their knees in company with the other worshippers, he
dared not remain standing, but slipped very, very
gradually into a kneeling posture, in an agony of anxiety
for his dove-coloured trousers. What a difference be-
tween this scene and that last Mass at San Filippo, that
fair circle of beautiful maidens and fashionable dames ;
that atmosphere of purified Christianity. He sought
consolation in thinking about his cousin. ‘An aristo-
crat by nature,' he remarked to himself. ‘ I must be her
ideal, her Messiah. She does not wish to show it too
clearly, that is only natural.'
The bell sounded for the elevation of the Host. Nepo,
kneeling, with his head devoutly bent downwards, was
thinking: ‘Twelve hundred acres m Lomelina, eight
hundred in the Novarese, a place at Turin, a palace at
Florence.'
Edith, for her part, did not bend her head. She was
very pale, and she looked straight before her with a
steady and tranquil gaze. Only the trembling of her
STEINEGGE
191
hands betrayed the fervour of the heart-felt prayer which,
passing above all those bent heads, was winging its way
direct to God himself: ‘O God, O God, Thou Who
knowest how grievously they treated him, wilt Thou not
be merciful towards him ? ’ Her face did not wear an
expression of ascetic resignation, but of a firm, intelligent
will under the chastening mfluence of sorrow.
Meanwhile, our honest fnend Steinegge was hearing
Mass in excelsis^ seated among the laurel bushes, his
hands clasped across his knees. He had gone out of
church because the marble floor seemed to burn his
feet. It was many a long year since he had placed fool
inside one of God’s prison houses, as he called them.
He did not like to leave his daughter outside the church
door, but he barely crossed the threshold, and as soon as
he saw Edith making her way to the women’s side,
he began to feel that he had over-estimated his strength.
It was not so much his old fierce hatred, as an honour-
able scruple, which led him to beat a retreat. The good
old wolf went outside the fold.
Crouching up there like a wolf in the blues, he paid
no heed to the delicious panorama of mountain, stream
and meadow which lay stretched out before him; nor
did he hear the soft whispering of the leaves close by.
He kept looking down at the roof of the church and
listening to the confused melody of voice and organ
which from time to time issued thence. One thought
was in his mind, and he kept repeating it throughout the
whole service.
‘ In her eyes I am a reprobate.’
The thought was bitter enough. He had had so
much to fight against, had endured so much suffering,
had guarded his honour under the fierce onslaught of
hunger, against all the violent desires of a famine-stricken
MALOMBRA
292
frame, against all the laches of weakness ; and to have
preserved it thus, almost more for her sake than for
himself; to love her as he loved her; and for her to
tliinTr of him as a reprobate. Must he then humiliate
himself before these priests who had caused him to be a
reproach to his parents and to his wife, and were thus
responsible for her privations and her death? ‘That
will be the end of it. I shall humiliate myself in order
that Edith may think well of me.' Then he had an idea.
‘Suppose I were to address a word to this God of
theirs, assuming that there is one.'
He rose to his feet and began to speak in German
raising his voice. *0 God, hearken to me for a little
while. We are not friends ? Granted. I have spoken
much ill of the priests, to You or of You I have never
spoken a word. If, nevertheless. You desire to treat me
as an enemy, I pray You to settle the account They
say that You are a just God, and I, O God, believe this.
Look in Your book at the record of Andreas Steinegge,
formerly Frederick Von Nassau, and see whether I have
not paid enough already. You are very great; I am
very small; You are ever young; I am old and weary.
What do You still desire to take from me ? My daughter
Edith’s love? It is all that I possess, O God. See
whether You cannot leave me it If You cannot do so,
make away with me and end me.’
At the sound of his own voice, Steinegge became
more and more moved. He knelt down on one knee.
‘ I have but little knowledge of You, O God, but my
Edith loves You, and I am able to worship You, if You so
will. You see that I am kneeling ; but let us under-
stand one another, and let us leave the priests on one
side. Perhaps I can present some other offering to You.
I have my health and my iron constitution. Take these.
Let me pine away and die, but come not between
STEINEGGB
m
my daughter and me. I cannot kneel down before the
priests and tell lies. I am an honest man and a soldier.
‘ O God,’ and here Steinegge knelt with both knees on
the ground and lowered his voice, * I fear that I was
a gieat sinner in my youth. I loved cards and women.
Of the twelve duels which I have fought, in three I
was in the wrong; I gave the provocation and ray
adversary was wounded. I regard these as three sms ;
they have always filled me with remorse. O God of my
daughter Edith, I ask Your forgiveness.’
He said no more, and returned to his seat agitated but
contented. He felt as though he had made a great step
forwards. In his communing with God his scanty faith
had so greatly increased that he now awaited some
reply from Him. At least he experienced the satisfaction
of the poor man who is under the necessity of speaking
to a powerful one, by whom he fears to be treated with
scorn, and whom, to avoid being repulsed by his servants,
he confronts on the highway, addresses with the brevity
which the situation demands, is listened to in silence,
and believes that this silence covers a growmg con-
sideration for him. He lighted a cigar to correct the
choking sensation in his throat. Captain Steinegge
must not break down. He smoked wildly, furiously.
When he felt a little calmer, and as he was looking down
with his cigar between the first and second fingers of his
right hand, it seemed to him as though the blades of
grass peeped out between the stones to utter something
at once solemn and mcomprehensible, and that the
whispering of the trees hard by replied to them. Al-
though a German, he had never understood Nature’s
language, he had never been sentimental 1 His cigar
went out. What did all this mean ? He shook himself
together, got up, and went down the hill towards the
church, „
CHAPTER III
THE RED-AND-BLACK FAN
One morning Countess Fosca and Count Caesar found
themselves fite-a-fite at breakfast. All the rest of the
party had gone to inspect the site of the new paper mill,
accompanied by Ferrieri the engineer, Finotti and Vezza,
Ferrieri having returned on business, and the other two
in order to explore a great cave near the castle, little
known to the public, to which they had arranged to go
on the following day.
Countess Fosca seemed more lively than ever. Her
wig was awry, and the glances which she cast at the
Coimt were more serious than accorded with her facetious
prattle. She talked on a hundred different subjects,
jumping from one thing to another. The Count replied
m monosyllables, in brief remarks thrown out as if to
ward off the stream of talk from him. At each of these
retorts the Countess changed the subject, but without
better success. However, she displayed no irritation.
Quite the contrary ; she seemed more amiable than ever,
while the Count — between his * just so,’ * certainly,* ‘ of
course * — cast two sharp glances at her, of which the first
meant, ‘What on earth is in the wind? * and the second
and quicker one signified, ‘ I understand.’ After that he
did not look at her again.
194
THE RED‘AND‘BLACK FAN
195
The Countess relapsed momentarily into silence,
leaned back in her chair, and took to fanning herself
feverishly with a green fan, making the ribbons of her
cap flutter about her rubicund face.
‘What a pity it is, Csesar,' said she.
‘Eh?’
‘What a pity that we are no longer young.’
‘ Of course.’
‘We should have gone to enjoy ourselves with the
others, instead of which we have to stay at home and
look at one another, like two luggers rotting in a dock.’
The Count was unable to repress a spasmodic move-
ment of his wrinkled face.
‘ Eh 1 ’ cried the Countess, ‘ do you think that if I have
fallen ofi* somewhat in looks, that you are such a good-
looking man ? What an idea ! ’
And here the Countess, talking at the top of her voice,
filled her glass.
‘ Eh ! why do you make such eyes at me ? Do you
think they go through me? I’m not afraid, you must
know. Is this the table-cloth of Santa Costanza? I
should say that you belonged to that age. Well, ‘what
was I saying ? You make me lose my head with your
grimaces. Goodness gracious, how hot it is ! And for
me to be sitting here with you ! I should have done far
better to have gone to see that stupid paper mill. They
are enjoying themselves at anyrate. Come, be good,
give me a peach. Aren’t they just enjoying themselves I
Thanks, dear boy. Tell me, yes or no, whether they are
enjoying themselves.’
‘ I do not know.’
‘ I do not know ? But I do. Pretty, that, I do ?iot
know / ’
^ ‘ Do you like that peach ? ’
MALOMBRA
196
^No, it is good for nothing. And what has the peach
to do with it ? Let us leave peaches on one side, my
dear cousin. What a man, to wander away after the
peaches! What were we saying?^
*1? Nothing.*
‘Nothing is good for the eyes, and bad for the mouth.
Speak up ; I have been talking for the past hour. I feel
sorry for you. At this rate you will burst presently.
Tell us all about it. Why don’t you want those young
people to amuse themselves ? *
‘Listen,’ said the Count, smiling. ‘For my part, I
have been greatly amused during the last hour, and it is
I who feel sorry for you. You wish to pass very slowly
through a broad, deep river, and you go up and down
the bank seeking for a bridge which does not exist.
Your only way is to jump, my dear cousin. Jump, then,
you will come to no harm.’
The Countess became scarlet, and hastily pushed away
her plate, on which stood a glass full of Barolo. The
wine was spilt over the tablecloth; the Count started
and glanced angnly across the table, and her Excellency
exclaimed, —
It is nothing, dear cousin; a mere bagatelle ! ’
The Count began to fume. It required all the courtly
traditions of his house to restrain him from an outburst
against his giddy-headed cousin. The stains irritated
him as though his family motto had been ‘ punty.’ He
rang the bell furiously, and cried to the servant, ‘ Clear
away all those things at once.’
It was like a canon shot, which, with smoke and noise,
carried away that choking sensation of wrath, and left
him free and at peace.
‘Do you feel better, dear Caesar?’ inquired the
Countess, after the table had been cleared.
THE RED'AND'BLACK FAN
197
The Count made no reply.
‘I feel better, too,’ added her Excellency, hastily.
‘Let us then talk this matter over. Listen, Caesar.
You, with your great insight into character, understand
me thoroughly. I am a poor, ignorant, foolish creature,
but good-hearted. I am all heart. When an affair
concerns my own flesh and blood, my own boy, I get
quite confused ; the few ideas I have run together in a
heap — I see nothing more, know nothing. I am only
a poor woman, and that is how things go with me.
Help me, Caesar, advise me. I want* you to look into
things, to speak, to do everything. You are of the same
blood as my poor Alvise. It is Alvise who tells me to
place myself in your hands on behalf of our son, on
behalf of my Nepo.’
As she uttered the name, the Countess was moved to^
tears, and dried her eyes with an immense pocket-hand-
kerchief.
‘ Pardon me, Csesar,’ she said. ‘ I am a mother, I am
old, I am foolish.’
The tearful voice of his cousin was not melodious, and
did not arouse the interest of the Count, who had drawn
back his chair at an angle to the table, and, throwing one
leg over the other, swung it backwards and forwards,
looking all the time at the Venetian lady by Palma.
The lachrymose mood of his cousin’s was a new one,
and pleased him even less than the others. After a few
minutes’ silence, during which the Countess held her
handkerchief over her nose and her left eye, the Count
turned his head towards her, and continuing 1.0 swing his
leg, while with the middle finger of his right hand he
thrummed I know not what note on the table, he
remarked, —
*WeU?’
MALOMBRA
198
‘Well, great heavens ! I see here certain things which
alarm me, if you understand. Even m all delicacy, I
cannot refrain from speaking. Young people are young
people, one knows, but we older folks ought to supply
the judgment in which they are lacking.'
* You say you are alarmed; but, just tell me, was not
all this what you yourself intended ? '
‘What I intended, indeed? Of course, it was not
what I intended. My intention was to let you know my
son, to lead you to take a liking to him, and to give him
sound advice on this very question of his marriage. He
has refused two or three matches which I had in view
for him, most eligible girls, too, and I don't know the
reason. I have endeavoured to find out ; I have made
inquiries as to whether there was any intrigue, any
foolish entanglement. There is nothing of the kind.
He is not an anchorite, I am thankful to say, and has,
I do not doubt, led, well, a young man's life, but he is
prudent, he is cautious. There is no shadow of an
entanglement. Well ! The matter causes me sleepless
nights. I cannot broach the subject. He believes that
all one is looking for is money. Great heavens ! I am a
mother, and I have to think of everything. All that he
thinks of is the heart, the wit, the talent, the beauty, the
playing, the singing and many other things, light as air,
and of no account compared with what is in my mind.
Excellent things in themselves, but they don't suffice. I
thought that, perhaps for the present, he was opposed to
the idea of marriage. It was not so ; I learnt for certain
what his views were, though still in the air, so to speak.
Then I came here, in order, I repeat, that you might give
him sage counsel. Marina? That is where I was wrong.
It never occurred to me that he would fall in love with
Marina, Listen, Caesar, I am outspoken. Let us speak
THE RED’AND-BLACK FAN 199
frankly, although she be your niece. The girl has
changed greatly of late. Nepo and I knew her at
Milan. With all her wealth, with all her grandeur,
my son cared for her not the least. She struck him
as a haughty aristocrat. For my son holds your views
on the subject of birth — ^the views that obtain now since
Italy became united Italy. My son is not one of those
snobs who turn their backs on you if you have not four
quarterings. Well, at that time, we did not greatly care
for your niece. It never once occurred to me that he
would change his tune. There I was wrong, for I must
confess to you that she is a darling, a bonbon ^ and
then her misfortunes ! I forgot about her misfortunes ;
I forgot what a heart my son has. Nepo takes after his
mother there. A large heart, dear cousin, is a dead
weight which drags one down. Whoever has a large
heart — ^
‘ Well, well ? ’ interrupted the Count, who felt that it
was about time to close the argument.
* Weil, am I not right to say all this to you, his uncle,
his second father. I have told you what confidence I
place in you, and now I don’t know whether the affair
ought to be allowed to proceed. I see one side of the
picture, I see the other ; I see this, I see that ; I like it,
and I don’t like it Oh, heavens, it is a heart-rending
dilemma I ’
The Countess once more raised her handkerchief to
her eyes. - Just then a door opened, and Catte appeared,
bringing her Excellency’s snuff-box. The Countess turned
upon her in a rage, and cried out in a strident voice, —
‘ Take care ! How many times have I told you not to
come bothering when people are talking ! ’
Catte laid down the snuff-box on a chair, and retired
in haste.
200
MALOMBRA
The Count was lost m admiration at the versatile
emotions of his cousin, who, gently bending her head,
again carried her handkerchief to her eyes.
‘ And now,’ he resumed, ‘may I say one woid ? ’
‘ Oh, good gracious, am I not waiting for it like the
manna from heaven ! ’
‘All the things you have noticed have passed me
unobserv’ed ; perhaps I am blind. But let that be as it
may, it is not necessary for two people to lose their sleep,
their appetite and their heads, in order to be able to live
fairly well together. Still, I confess that I do not myself
see clearly in this affair.’
The dull, tearful eyes of the Countess suddenly
brightened. She laid the handkerchief on her knees.
‘Nor do I see,’ continued the Count, ‘w’’hat kind of
happiness can result from the union of your son and my
niece.’
‘Well ! ’ exclaimed her Excellency, in dismay.
‘ My niece has plenty of intelligence, and as curious a
head as the Almighty and the Evil One can put together,
when they both work in competition.’
‘ But what nonsense, Caesar 1 ’
‘ Not at all. Don’t you know that the trade mark of
both is stamped on every object in the world? That
being so, my niece ought to have as husband a man of
steel, strong and brilliant. Your son is certainly not a
man of steel Oh, I don’t despise him on that account.
The men of steel are not found by the dozen. In my
opmion, your son, who, by the way, does not hold my
views on the subject of birth, would not be a suitable
husband for Marina.’
Countess Fosca, who was now untying her cap, shaking
her head, and breathing hard, replied, —
‘ What is all this ? What have you been talking about ?
THE RED-AND-BLACH FAN
201
Oh ’ what things to say 1 It makes me hot to listen to
you. I did not follow the whole of your argument ; but
if it was hostile to my son, as it appeared to me to be, I
have the honour to inform you, with all respect to your
abilities, that you know nothing at all about it Go to
Venice and inquire about my son, and see what you will
hear. Not that he is made of steel ; gold is what he is.
You may be of steel, and of pewter too. You bring out
remarks which fairly make me lose my head. Of steel ?
Did ever one hear such things ? Steel is what they make
pens of, my dear.’
Here the Countess made a brief pause, accompanied
by grand sweeps of her fan.
‘What stuff 1’ she continued. ‘You know nothing
about it. Oh * you know nothing about it, my dear
cousin. And that poor, dear girl, Lianna, even her you
don’t understand, Mr Bear. Oh, no, it won’t do.’
Here followed four sweeps of the fan. Meanwhile, the
Count was looking at her with an amazed expression, too
marked to be altogether genuine.
‘But, in that case,’ he said, ‘it is true that I don’t
understand. If you have these ideas, why, in heaven’s
name, are you afraid of your son paying court to my
niece ? ’
‘ Listen to me, Caesar. I may have all the faults and
failings in the world, but I am sincere. Will you take it
in ill part if I speak frankly ? Another thing is, that if
my son gets to Imow that I have broached certain sub*
jects to you, there is no more quiet or peace of mind for
me, I can assure you, Csesar. Do you wish me to go
on? The words seem to stick in my throat, and I have
difficulty in getting them out. It is a great humihation
for me ; the whole thing is contrary to my nature, but
facts are facts and duty is duty.’
202
MALOMBRA
The Countess laid down her fan on the table, replaced
her handkerchief in her pocket, re-tied the stnngs of her
cap, and finally recommenced, in slow, solemn tones, —
‘ This is how things stand. The Salvador family of to-
day IS not the Salvador family of years ago ; would that
it were 1 Poor Alvise was very unfortunate in his affairs,
and then came 1848, and you know what happened then.
It IS not for me to say so ; but if it hadn't been for my
property, the house of Salvador would have made ship-
wreck. When Alvise married me, my estate was worth
so and so. Would that he were alive now ! May his
soul rest m peace. We should be ruined by this time,
but we should be happy all the same. Of the anxieties,
the fatigues, the privations that have fallen to my lot,
dear cousin, I will not speak. In my house, the most
penurious economy. My estates were in the hands of
thieves — ^my steward at their head. “ Scratch my back
and m scratch yours.” With two thousand two hundred
acres in Polesine, I was obliged to buy rice for my house-
hold I I need say no more. Oh, heavens, what a life it
was ^ Well, by dint of toil and sacrifice we steered the
ship to harbour ; but, at the present moment, it depends
on Nepo whether she remains there. All hangs on
Nepo's marriage ! And now, tell me, Csesar ; if, in the
kindness and generosity of your heart, you had not taken
pity on poor Manna, how would she live ? Tell me, my
dear fnend, what would she live on ? '
‘ Her own property — that is what she would live on.'
‘ Her own property ? '
Countess Fosca opened her eyes wide.
‘Certainly. The winding up of my brother-in-law’s
estate realised eighty thousand francs.’
‘Well, bread and water, to be frank.’
*I am not such a grand seigneur as to be able to say
THE REHAND-BLACK FAN 203
that I value eighty thousand francs. For me it would
be enough.’
‘Well, we will say bread and water and fruit And
still you would have to see whether it would be enough.
Just take to yourself a wife — ^young, beautiful, full of life
and energy — and settle down at Milan or at Turin among
a string of fast characters as long as from here to Mestre,
with duels and intrigues without end, for you have to
have those too \ dress her, undress her, amuse her, pro-
vide her with carriages, and also — I was going to say
— ^in short, you venture on a family, and then I shall
like to hear how far you find your eighty thousand
carry you. I am speaking to you from the bottom of my
heart, Caesar, because I regard you as my near relative.
My first impulse was to take Nepo right away at once;
but what would you have said of me? I decided to
speak to you as I would to a brother ; and I have done
so.’
‘I thank you heartily for the honour,’ replied the
Count. ‘You honour me even more than you think.
The advice that I would give you is to depart at once.’
The Countess remained silent, stricken to the heart.
During that deathhke silence one could hear two
flies fighting inside a sugar-basin.
‘By all means,’ said she. It seemed as though her
Excellency, after so much chattering, suddenly found
herself short of breath.
‘Of course,’ added the Count, ‘it is quite possible that
you will not have to go. It will depend on my niece.’
‘ How do you mean, on your niece ? ’
‘ It is pretty clear. As an honourable man, I had to
give you the advice I have given, because I don’t think
that my niece and your son are suited to one another.
You do not share this opinion, neither, apparently, does
204
MALOMBRA
your son, and it may happen that my niece, who is
perfectly qualified and has the right to form her own
opinion, does not share it either. In that case, you
will understand that I neither could nor would make
my views prevail.'
‘ You go on as before, Caesar ; after all I have said to
you,'
The Count got up and interrupted her. ‘Will you
kindly favour me in my library. It is a weakness of mine
to transact all business there.'
The Countess wished to make some reply, but her
cousm, standing with the door open, signed to her to
pass on. He put m his pocket the snuff-box brought in
by Catte, and followed the Countess to the library.
When her Excellency had made herself comfortable in
an arm-chair, the Count began walking up and down the
room in silence, his head bent forward and his hands in
his pockets, according to his custom. Having made five
or six turns, the Count stood still in front of her, looked
at her for a moment, and said, —
‘What do you think of three hundred and twenty
thousand francs?’
Her Excellency's face became purple. She muttered
something unintelligible.
‘ Three hundred and twenty thousand francs and her
eighty thousand make four hundred thousand. What do
you think of four hundred thousand francs ? '
‘In heaven's name, Csesar, what do you mean? I
don't understand.'
‘Ob, you understand perfectly well,' said the Count,
with curious emphasis. ‘It is a mystery in regard to
which you were lackmg neither in faith nor in hope
before you spoke to me. I return you my best thanks.
You have done me the honour of believing that I should
THE RED^AND-BLACK FAN
205
provide with sufficient liberality for my niece’s settlement
in life, although I am under no obligation to do so, and
although she does not bear my name. Is that not
so?’
Her Excellency again untied her cap and burst
forth —
* Allow me, sir, to tell you what I think of you — that
your mode of speech is one for railway porters and not
for ladies. I am astonished that, at your juvenile age,
you have not yet mastered the usages of society. And I
am astonished that, with your uncouth ways, your
fitting clothes and unkempt hair, you imagine you can
say and do anything that occurs to you. You may be
a nobleman, my dear sir, but you are not a gentleman.
Do you imagine that if I were the only person concerned
that I should not say to you Keep your money for
yourself? Do you think I would remain another hour
in a house where I am not treated with ordinary polite-
ness ? Thank your stars that I am not the person con-
cerned, for I am independent of my son and of every-
body else, and my own money is more than enough for
me. And I should not know what to do with your three
hundred thousand. Bah ! Nor with your four hundred
thousand. Bah I And I, poor foolish woman, who have
confided in you as though you were my brother. Thank
heaven 1 I repeat, that I am old and prudent, for if my
son knew that self-seekmg motives were attributed to
him, he would be capable of sacrificing his love, his
happiness and everything else.’
The warmth of this harangue was perfectly genuine.
Countess Fosca, after bringing her cousin to the point
she had been leading up to, now felt offended at his
speaking plainly on the subject. A tnfiing disillusion
may also have contributed to make her feel herself
206
MALOMBRA
affronted. The Count had not said in so many words,
as she had hoped, ^Marina is 7ny heir.^
The Count listened sweetly to the furious onslaught
of his cousin, as though it were no affair of his, and con-
tented himself with replying, —
* The wine that you spill leaves a stain \ the words, no.^
The Countess appeared not to hear him. She had
already risen and was moving, muttering to herself, to-
wards the door. Her cousin, standing upnght, his
rugged face bent downwards, was watching her, smiling ;
perhaps because her Excellency reminded him of a
young goose which has been disturbed by some villager
whilst feeding, or while peacefully conversing with her
neighbours, or while engaged in solitary reflections, and
who, after cackling loudly and beating a hasty retreat, de-
parts with much dignity, though still greatly agitated,
expressing at short intervals with low strident cnes her
anger and disdain. When the Countess was near the
door the Count moved a step forwards.
‘ Wait,' said he.
Her Excellency stopped, and turned her head a little
to the left.
The Count came up behind her, holding out an object,
which he held in his left hand and tapped with the right.
Her Excellency turned her head round a little more
and glanced out of the comers of her eyes at the Count’s
hands, then she turned right round.
The Count was offering her an open snuff-box.
Her Excellency hesitated a moment, made a grimace,
and said brusquely, —
*Is It Valgadena?’
The Count, by way of reply, merely tapped the snuff •
box with two fingers.
The Countess stretched forth a thumb and forefinger,
THE RED' AND^ BLACK FAN 207
rubbing their tips together with sensuous anticipation;
then she plunged them into the soft, aromatic mixture,
and remarked, with a more reconciled air, —
‘That was a great indignity, you know, Caesar.’
She earned the snuif to her nostrils. ‘A horrible
insult ! ’ she added.
She smelt the snuff. She smelt it once, twice, thnee,
bent down over the snuflf-box, knit her eyebrows and
seized hold of the Count's left hand.
‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘so you are a thief as well?*
The Count laughed and handed her the snuff-box,,
saying,—
‘We understand each other. All that is required is
Marina’s consent.’
Her Excellency left the room, shutting the door un-
ceremoniously in his face. Passmg through the loggia>
she noticed the two boats on their way back to the
castle. Her Excellency hurried upstairs to her bedroom,,
leaving her green fan there, and taking instead a black
one with red flowers, with which she returned to the
loggia, fanning herself and leaning over the balustrade.
The two boats sparkled in the sun on the green waters
of the lake a few hundred yards away. The oars were
flashing as they struck and rose out of the water. A gay
medley of voices and laughter was wafted to her Excel-
lency’s ears, now more, now less clearly, according to
the breeze. The boats looked like two bright butterflies
which had fallen into the water and were struggling
there, laboriously working their wings, and leaving be-
hind them two long, fine, converging Imes. The Dart
came first, flying the Admiral’s flag, and a little to the
left could be seen the white hull of the jolly-boat.
Marina, Nepo, Finotti and Vezza were in the Dart ;
the jolly-boat carried Steinegge, Ferrieri and Don Inno-
203
MALOMBRA
cenzo, who had come across the party by chance, and
had joined his two friends and the engineer, Ferrieri,
the latter of whom, knowing him to be the parish priest,
had not failed to pay court to the old man. The con-
versation took a placid turn. Edith was defending her
native tongue against the engineer, who had somewhat
rudely accused it of harshness. She maintained that it
was full of sweetness for poetical purposes, and that
such sentimental words as Liehe^ Wek^ fuhlen^ sehnen
acquire, through a prolongation of the vowels, a
deep mysterious sound. She made these remarks in
broken sentences, timidly, in cold, stiff Italian. While
she was talking, her father glanced from the priest
to the engineer, and from him to the boatman, with
sparkling eyes, which seemed to say, ‘What do you think
of that?’
Don Innocenzo listened with the greatest attention,
masticating the German words quoted by Edith, and
exaggerating her accent to persuade himself that they
were musical, then putting in a limy Em of doubt
Ferrieri became more confused in the course of the
argument than was to be expected of a man of his in-
telligence, and replied briefly and rather at haphazard to
the calls which came from the skiff.
Eico was rowing and Donna Marina steering, clad in
a graceful dress of soft, grey flannel, whose loose folds
yet followed the lines of her beautiful figure so faithfully ^
that they appeared to form her sole garment From the
girdle of buff-coloured leather fell on the right side a
pretty gold chatelaine, and a little gold pin fastened her
silk chestnut-coloured scarf. A little round hat of the
same colour, with an eagle’s feather, gave a coquettish
air to her delicate features. Her gloves were buff-
coloured, and as she held the ropes of the tiller, her
THE RED^AND-BLACK FAN 209
elbows w^ere pressed back, revealing the elegant shape
of the bust One foot was drawn back, the other pointed
towards Rico a little dark -brown shoe, sprinkled with
* small white buttons. Finotti sat on her right and Vezza
on her left. Nepo was sitting in a melancholy attitude
at the prow. Marina had treated him badly that day,
poor fellow. She had Jionoured him with one glance as
she got into the boat, and that was to make him under-
stand that he had to give up the best place to her new
guests. The two commendatori had not stood on cere-
mony, but sat down beside her with youthful alacrity ;
Finotti, with his face lighted up with a Mephistophelian
fire, and Vezza, irradiated by the same placid smile which
the beatific vision of a leg of turkey, with truffles, would
occasionally summon up. They could hardly recognise
the cold and taciturn Marina of other days. This new
Marina sparkled with wit and coquetry. The pohtician
would have given, I will not say his constituency, but
certainly all his friends to have won her favour, the
literary man would have given all the old conserva-
tive blue-stockings of Milan ; who kept him wrapt up
in cotton wool as a kind of classic antique. Both
spoke to her of love and beauty, as the best theme on
which to approach her, and to feel more acutely the
electncity of her presence ; Fmnotti in sensuous langu-
age thinly disguised; Vezza with the bland rhetoric of
self-conscious vanity. He spoke of letters written to
him by unknown readers of his works — ^letters which
breathed a delicate bouquet of love, sufficient to intoxi-
cate a man of refined sensibilities.
This aroused the ridicule of Finotti, who declared that
he did not envy him his old Vino Santo of venerable
Milanese fidendships — wine that was passk , wine for a
guest already satiated, and about to leave the table and
o
210
MALOMBRA
say farewell to life. For his part, he preferred a young
vintage full of light and fire, which passes like lightning
to the head, the heart, the conscience, for only such wine
knows where the conscience lives , wine that has within
it all the heat of the sun and all the passions of the
earth, full of colour, sparkling with effervescence which
makes both the bottles and the scruples fly.
‘ Tell me, Signor Vezza,’ said Manna, quite suddenly,
‘did you reply to those letters?’
Signor Vezza, who took his soft ‘ commendatore ’ with
his morning coffee from the servant, and with his evening
coffee from the ladies, and always with a keen relish, felt
acuiely the pnvation inflicted on him by Manna, but was
obliged to resign himself to it, for Marina recognised no
titles except those of noble birth.
* I replied to the ladies who were beautiful,’ he said.
‘ Let us understand this marvel of subtlety/ rejoined
Marina, as she carelessly watched Rico’s oar rise and
fall.
‘There is no subtlety, Marchesina. One might say
that in the anonymous letters of beautiful women there
is always a shade of reserve, and in those of the plain,
ones always a shade of abandon ; but this would be a '
vulgar way of putting it. It is the instinct that is ne-
cessary; the instinctive sense of beauty. When you,
Marchesina, enter at the first floor a thrill ought to
pass through the student on the fourth floor who is
buried m the Constitutional Law of our friend Finotti.
What do you say, Count ? ’
But Nepo paid no heed to the conversation. Nepo
was looking with great interest at the castle. He was
wondenng whether his mother was in the loggia, and
whether she had in her hand the green fan, or the black-
and-red on^ or the white handkerchief. If the Countess
THE RED'AND-BLACK FAN
2IX
was not there at all it would mean that she had not been
able to have the important conversation with the Count.
If she was there the green fan signified ‘no luck’; the
red-and-black one ‘good luck'; the white handkerchief
would mean ‘ Marina will have every thingl
He started at Vezza's question and stared at him.
He had not understood the remark. Marina slightly
shrugged her shoulders and spoke to Finotti.
Rico, who was always being worried and teased by
his Excellency, turned round and looked slyly at him
with eyes glittering with malice.
‘ Look where you are rowing to, idiot,' said his Excel-
lency, in a low tone.
Rico laughed to himself and bit his lip as he plunged
the dripping oars into the water and rested on them,
while he waited for the jolly-boat, which now and then
lagged behind. They could hear Femeri talking m a
loud voice. Vezza called to him, and receiving no reply,
made some remark about him and Miss Steinegge.
Marina pursed up her lips, as though to say, ‘bad
taste,' and Vezza whispered, smihng, —
‘ A calculating match.'
* Go on ! ' said Marina to Rico.
The long sharp keel glided on through the motionless
green water. A few leaves slumbering on that glassy
surface came opposite the boat, quickly passed by,
and disappeared. The castle began to grow more dis-
tinct, spread out, rose before them, threw open doors
and windows ; the cypresses in the background began to
stand out from the mountain and come towards the
boat ; the mountain itself began to move behind them.
The black spot in the third arch of the loggia became a
lady, a matron, the Countess Fosca with a big red-and-
black butterfly on her breast. One could hear the
212 MALOMBRA
fountain in the courtyard, one could hear the Countess’s
voice,—
‘ Are"you there, my children ? '
‘Yes, here we are. Such a lovely picnic, mamma;
enjoyed ourselves so much ; saw all sorts of things ; no
accident Or, rather to be correct, there was one acci-
dent ; my cousin has been very amusing, and I have
been very dull.’
Shouting out the above, Nepo solemnly adjusted his
pbice-nez and looked at Marina. He seemed a different
man. He had shaken his arms till the smalljwhite cuffs
fell down over his knuckles, and he looked at his cousin
with a foolish air of triumph. Marina pretended not to
have heard his impertinent remark, and turned round to
look for the jolly-boat Meanwhile, the JDarf^ with
Nepo, Rico, the commendatori, the lady and the flag,
disappeared into the cool shade of the boat-house, where
Nepo’s voice was already resounding between the large
damp vaulted roof and the green water clear as a mirror
of emerald. He shook his head to make his pince-nez
drop, and leapt delicately ashore with his arms spread
out and his knees bent, and then held out his hands to
the others, very nearly succeeding in getting them thrown
into the water by the Dart^ which Vezza, in his cold way,
called ‘a pair of scales,’ from its sensitiveness to any
disturbance of weight. When Manna’s turn came he
held out both hands to her and pressed hers warmly ;
she frowned slightly, leapt ashore and released her
hands. On the steps they came across Fanny in a
comer of the waD, her eyes downcast. She raised them
with a faint smile to Nepo, who came last. There
seemed to be something in the wind ; but Nepo, who,
dunng the first few days had ventured now on a word
or two, now on a silent caress, passed her by without
THE RED^AND'BLACK FAN
213
even looking at her. Her face clouded over, and she
went slowly down the steps.
Count Caesar greeted his guests gaily at the head of
the steps, and was especially courteous to Don Inno-
cenzo Countess Fosca embraced Marina as though
they had not met for ten years, and only noticed
Steinegge after his fourth obeisance. Marina left the
room and the assembled company, and so did Edith.
Meanwhile, the Count, Ferrieri and Don Innocenzo
were discussing, in a comer, the new paper mill in
connection with the health and morality of the district,
which the Count thought would not be improved. Don
Innocenzo, in his innocent enthusiasm for all kinds of
progress, and dazzled by the descnption of the building
and of the powerful engines ordered from Belgium, took
a more rosy view of things and would not see the dark
side. The others stood talking politics near a window.
The Countess asked Finotti how long the Austrians
would continue to hold Venice. Finotti, who had sat
in the left centre, and was in favour at Court and hated
the ministry of the day, assumed an air of mystery,
and said that they would be able to go to Venice, but
with other men in power. The Countess did not under-
stand how Italian diplomacy had received such a check,
and begged Finotti to put the King on the right path,
and his ministers too. If they couldn^t learn they must
be changed and thrown into the sea. If Venice only
knew what went on ! At Milan she had seen a portrait
of the Prime Minister. What good could a man with a
nose like that be?
Nepo intervened, very red in the face, saying that she
did not understand politics, and would only make her-
self ridiculous. This acted like a douche of icy water.
Steinegge knitted his brows. The others held their
214
MALOMBRA
tongues. The Countess, accustomed to such filial com-
pliments, observed quietly that women often have more
pohtical sagacity than men.
‘Always,' said Vezza; ‘and the cabinet at Turin is
worth nothing in comparison with yours, Countess.'
Finotti and Steinegge also plied her with compli-
ments. Nepo felt embarrassed. He adjusted his pmce-
neSf and fanning himself with his handkerchief, went
out into the loggia. As he entered, Marina came m
from the other side.
Noticing Nepo, she seemed to hesitate for a moment,
walked slowly up to the balcony which overlooked the
lake, standing in the shadow of a pillar, and then turned
round to look at her cousin.
Nepo could not retreat. He would have wished
to speak to his mother, and find out precisely all
about the interview with Count Csesar before taking a
step forward; but since he knew that, on the whole,
things had gone well, how could he withdraw before
the silent invitation of Marina's eyes, which plainly said :
‘ Come, we are alone.'
In spite of his conceit he felt embarrassed. Hitherto
he had only tried his hand with dressmakers, milliners
and servant girls ; with the ladies he drew the line at
platonic friendship. His heart gave him no inspiration,
and his mind but httle.
He walked up towards Marina, and leaning over the
balcony beside her, shook oiF his pince-nez,
‘ Dear cousin,' said he.
The pince-7iez^ falling on the marble, was smashed to
pieces.
Nepo removed the fragments from the cord, and,
letting them fall on the rock below, remarked with a
THE RED-AND-BLACK FAN 215
* It was by Fries.’
Having pronounced this concise funeral oration, he
resumed, —
* Dear cousin — ’
Behind him came a discordant medley of voices.
Countess Fosca’s, the Count’s and the others.
‘Dear cousin,’ replied Marina, looking beyond the
little bay out on to the open lake where the first breath of
the southern breeze was scarring with leaden lines the
reflections of the white clouds and blue sky. There
was silence for a moment In the other room the
hubbub of discordant voices contmued.
‘What delightful days I have passed with you, dear
cousin 1 ’
‘Really?’
‘ Why — why should it not always be so ? *
He had struck the note at last, and contmued in an
emphatic tone, as though he were repeating the perora-
tion to a speech in parliament
‘Why should not these delightful days be the pre-
lude to a life of bliss to which everything invites us
— our family traditions, our birth, our education, our
inclination ? ’
Manna bit her lip.
‘ Yes,’ resumed Nepo, wanning at the sound of his own
voice, and with difficulty repressing an oratorical gesture.
‘ Yes, for even I, who have moved in the best society of
Venice and Turin, and have made warm fiiendships
with many beautiful and charming ladies, from the first
moment that I set eyes on you, have felt for you an
irresistible sympathy — ’
‘ Thanks,’ murmured Marina.
‘One of those sympathies which rapidly become a
passion in the case of a young man like myself, sus'
216
MALOMBRA
ceptible to beauty, to wit, with a keen feeling for the
most exquisite and delicate refinements. For you, my
cousin, possess all these things ; you are a Greek statue
brought to life in Italy and educated at Paris, as the
English Ambassador remarked to me, with less reason,
speaking of Countess C . You will one day be able
to nobly represent my house in the capital, whether
at Rome or at Turin; for I shall certainly finish my
career with a position at the capital worthy of my name,
worthy of Venice. I speak to you, my dear cousin, in
language more weighty than passionate, because this is
not the commencement of a romance but the continua-
tion of a history.’
Nepo paused for a moment to mentally congratulate
himself on this phrase, in which thought and voice led so
effectively and so harmoniously to the final word, history.
‘ It is the history/ he continued, * of two illustrious
families — one the support of the most glorious of Italian
Republics— one of the most illustrious monarchy — the one
in the extreme east, the other in the extreme west of
Italy, who became united by marriage in distant centuries,
in times of foreign tyranny and national discord, a prelude,
as it were, to the future unity ; families which in more
recent years, in years disastrous to their two states,
have renewed the bond and are now about to reconfirm
it amidst the splendid achievements accompanying the
new great national compact’
Nepo was exhausted by the terrible effort of controlling
his voice and checking his eloquence. Who can say how
far he would have gone with the thousands of phrases
that were in his mind if he had not now suddenly pulled
himself up short.
* Marina,’ said he ‘will you become Countess Salvador?
I await with full confidence your reply.’
THE RED-AND-BLACK FAN 217
Marina still looked out upon the lake and kept silence.
At that moment the voices in the next room subsided 5
Countess Fosca appeared in the entrance to the loggia.
She quickly withdrew again and went into the sitting-
room, talking loudly; but the others now burst into the
loggia.
‘ I appeal to you, Marchesina,' cried Finotti, who was
followed by Vezza, shrugging his shoulders, smiling, and
repeating, ‘ You are wrong, you are wrong.’
Not till then did Manna start up, as though wishing
to change the current of her thoughts, and saying
voce to Nepo, ‘ To-morrow,’ she left the balcony.
Nepo turned round angnly on the intruders, and
behind them saw his mother, who, with a long and
melancholy glance, and outstretched arms, inquired, —
‘How goes it?’
CHAPTER IV
IN THE CAVERN
They had arranged to start for the cavern at ten o’clock
next morning. They had to row along the lake to its
eastern extremity, and then pass up the valley that waters
it with the little mountain torrent which has hollowed out
the caves. The whole party went, with the exception of
the Count
Nepo was up in good time, and he went into the
garden, where he had sometimes seen Marina take a
walk before breakfast To-day she did not come.
Nepo, bereft of his pince-nez wandered from one side of
the garden to the other, burying his long nose in the
shrubs and Sowers, sniffing the fresh air, starting at the
distant appantion of the gardener in his shirt sleeves.
Marina did not put in an appearance at breakfast, not an
unusual thing with her.
Fanny appeared and begged Edith, on behalf of her
ladyship, to join her in her room. The two reappeared
together on the stroke of ten. hlarina merely favoured
Nepo with a careless ‘good morning,’ thrown to him in
the manner with which one flings away the stump of a
cigar. She took Edith’s arm in hers and descended to
the boat-house, leaving Countess Fosca, Nepo, the three
professional men, and Steinegge, to follow. As they
entered the boat-house the Dart, with Edith, Marina and
2lS
IN THE CA VEEN
219
Rico left it. There was a chorus of protests. ^Hon
voyage^^ replied Marina, ‘ we are going to lead the way.’
This was said in the softest of voices, with the most
gracious of airs. Yet nobody pressed the matter further.
Countess Fosca turned towards Nepo and looked very
grave ; he affected indifference, and shouted out some
compliment to the cruel fugitives, Ferrieri and the two
commendatori seemed greatly annoyed.
The two boats steered for the narrow part of the lake,
where it makes a bend and curves round a wooded pro-
montory amid willows and banks of reeds. The Dart
kept well ahead of the jolly-boat in spite of the frequent
supplications from those in the latter not to go so fast.
The jolly-boat resembled a gouty old gentleman making
wild efforts to pursue a young monkey of a nephew who
has given him the slip. Marina pretended not to hear
those cries, and one glance at her face made Rico com-
prehend that he was not to stop or even slacken his pace.
Very soon all that those in the jolly-boat could see of the
Dart was a mere white speck, its flag, waving in the
distance in the bluish haze of lake and morning mists
still clinging to the moimtain sides.
Edith was greatly moved. The clear, bright air
through which the boat was travelling, the thousands of
flashing rays thrown by the sun upon the water ruffled
by the morning breeze, the vivid green of the mountains
hard by, the warm, confused tints of the plains, no longer
recalled Germany to her as the meadows in front of Don
Innocenzo’s parsonage had done. ' She could not speak;
a sigh escaped her.
‘What does it make you feel?’ asked Marina, after a
long silence.
‘I hardly know; a desire to weep,’ replied Edith.
‘ It -makes me desire to live, to be happy.’
220
MALOMBRA
Edith remained silent ; she was surprised at the sudden
lire which flashed from the face of Marina, whose breast
was heaving tumultuously.
‘ I have a great respect for you,’ added the latter,
brusquely*
Edith looked at her in astonishment
* I know quite well,’ the other continued, ‘ that you
dislike me; that makes no difference.’
‘ I do not dislike you,’ replied Edith, in slow, grave
tones.
Marina shrugged her shoulders.
‘ Guide the boat as you can,’ she cried out to Rico,
letting go the tiller-ropes, and, turning round towards
Edith, was about to speak. But Edith anticipated her.
‘ I know,’ she said, ‘ that you have not been nice to
my father, and for that reason I can feel no affection for
you. I wish I could say what I want to say in German,
because I can’t express it well in Italian. However, you
will understand what I mean ; I do not dislike you.’
‘You are going to settle down at Milan?’ inquired
Marina.
‘Yes.’
‘ I want you to write to me.’
Edith reflected for a moment, and replied, —
‘ I can’t write to you as a friend.’
‘You are a very frank young lady, but not more so
than myself. I never said I was your friend. I
said I had a great respect for you. There is no such
thing as friendship between women. I don’t ask for
sentimental letters, all falsehood and foolishness. What
use should I put them to ? I want a little information.
Fnendship has nothing to do with that.’
‘ Nor respect either.’
‘Yes, it has. I don’t ask for services from people
IN THE CAVERN
22Z
whom I don't respect, and I feel sure that you will
render me this service, in spite of your resentment.
Have you not given me the pleasure of your company
this morning alone with me in my boat ? '
‘ What information do you require ^ '
‘ You see I I knew you would 1 I will tell you later
on.'
After some time Marina came out with another
question.
‘ Your mother was of noble birth ? '
‘ Yes.'
‘ Ah * I understand.'
Edith fired up, and her bright eyes flashed.
‘ I know no person more noble than my father,' she
said.
‘ What do you think of my cousin ? ' inquired Marina,
without paying any heed to this rejoinder, as though it
failed to reach her on the lofty heights of her grandeur.
‘ I do not know him.'
‘ Have you not seen him, have you not heard him
speak ? '
‘ Oh, yes.’
‘Go on rowing,' said Marina to Rico, stamping on
the bottom of the boat.
Hearing Nepo's name mentioned, he had leant forward
with an impulse of curiosity, and his arms hardly moved.
He now blushed and laughed, then became serious and
gave two vigorous strokes with the oars, which made the
water fly up in foam on either side of the boat. When
the ladies ceased talking, the boy began repeating to
himself the names of villages and mountains. Marina
had resumed her steering and took no notice of him ;
Edith began asking him questions, and then his silvery
voice rippled along the bank. From the mountains of
222
MALOMBRA
Val one could hear from time to time the baying
of hounds borne faintly on the breeze. Rico explained
to Edith that these were not hounds, but the ghosts of
the ‘ Forest pack.’ Whoever saw them died withm the
week, Edith was pleased at meeting an old German
legend, and inquired whether there were roads among
the mountains. The lad replied that there were paths,
one of them a very good one, by which one could
return on foot from the caves to the castle.
The Dart was now passing along Val Malombra, and
skirting the hilly wooded promontory. The w'ater was
here of great depth beneath the jutting rocks. Rico
maintained that the lake at this point spread away into
fathomless caves through a dark chasm in the rocks
called the Well of Acquafonda, and that if you threw
stones down it you could hear them splashing into the
water below. And he began to explain how those
hidden caves could be explored, but Marina lost her
patience and bade him hold his tongue.
Soon afterwards the Dart passed from sunshine to
shade, and was moored against two clumps of grey
willows, on the white sand of a little mountain stream
which flowed towards the lake, from pool to pool, in
silent, winding rivulets. Behind the willows lay cold
sombre fields, which, with the stream, disappeared on
the left in the bluish mists of the winding valley. High
up in the sunshine the mountain range was gleaming;
but the black chasm before them seemed like a den of
winter itself. As soon as the boat had passed the rocks
of the promontory one could hear the Countess call out^
* How cold it is, how horribly chilly,’ and there was a con-
fused movement in the boat, as arms were stretched out
and slipped into coats and cloaks, while Count Nepo
wrapped a white handkerchief round bis neck.
IN THE CAVERN
223
Rico was to serve as guide to the cavern, sometimes
called the Horror, but before they started Countess
Fosca had a question to ask. Her Excellency had
imagined that the Horror was the cave in front of them ;
she was met with a storm of protests, and was astonished
at the astonishment of the others ; the place struck her
as quite ugly enough. And now, what did they expect
her, unfortunate woman, to do ? To sit there dangling
her legs for two or three hours over those hideous rocks ?
To wait for the others in this ice-house? Nepo began
to fume, and reproached her with not having stayed
at home. Steinegge protested vigorously, Vezza in a
whisper, that they would never leave her ladyship alone.
Neither Finotti nor the engineer made any remark. It
was finally arranged that her Excellency was to go with
Steinegge to an inn, which could be seen shining m the
sun, about a mile away, where the high road passes the
lake. Rico declared that one could get there by
another path after passing through the Horror. As the
boat pushed off from the bank, Commendatore Finotti
asked Rico a question, and then turned round and
shouted out, —
‘ Course, Countess ! The Horror is not far off I '
*Is that it?^ inquired the Countess of the others,
pointing towards Finotti,
The party then started up the stream on foot, following
Rico, who jumped like a frog from rock to rock. Edith
and Marina were next to him, then came Ferrieri, a great
walker and mountaineer. Behind him trotted Nepo,
bent double, and bursting into perspiration at the burned
passage over the sharp rocks. He pretended to appeal
to Manna’s consideration for the two commendatori,
who laboriously brought up the rear.
‘ My dear cousin,’ replied Manna, coming to a halt
224
MALOMBRA
and turning round, ‘ I beg you to represent my uncle
and to act as guide to his three guests.’
Nepo and Ferrieri, taking the hint, slackened their
pace, and gloomily turned back to meet the two com-
mendaton, who came along, Finotti puffing and blowing,
Vezza sulky and discouraged. When they noticed the
ladies parting company with the two other men, all hope
of catching them up died away, and they stopped to take
breath, grumbling at Marina, and cursing the person
who had first started the idea of this horrible forced
march. At this point Rico suddenly appeared, having
been sent back to them by Marina so that they should
not lose their way. Having been told by the boy how
to proceed, Marina walked on rapidly without speaking.
Edith followed close behind her, silent and nervous also,
though from other causes. Within and aiound her she
seemed to hear one word only — ‘ Italy, Italy.’ From the
moment of her arrival at the castle, whenever she was
alone, whenever she ceased for a moment to think of her
father and their future, this one thought would flash
across her mind — ‘Italy.’ At such times she would
stretch out her hand as though in search of some
tangible reality, and as she watched the setting sun, or
the white winding line of some distant road, she became
lost in a mist of vague desire. She now halted fre-
quently, and, as the road rapidly ascended, observed the
solemn line of mountains slowly extend before her, their
green summits flashing in the sunlight and piercing the
blue sky high above, while far away at their feet the
dark waters of the lake spread out in a vast sheet
towards the west.
‘ Ah,’ said Marina, as they emerged into the sunlight,
‘ here we are.’
She jumped with joy as she revelled in the light and heat
IN THE CAVERN
225
Their path now led them between two fields of maize,
A cloud of butterflies rose from the white blooms,
fluttered over them for a few seconds, and settled down
again.
^It is like snow/ said Marina, turning for the first
time to Edith.
But Edith had halted some way down the path.
‘ Are they coming ? ’ cried Marina.
* I hear the voices of your cousin and the boy.’
Marina made a little grimace. ‘ Come with me,’ she
said.
A little further on the road led up to a group of
stables, at an angle of the mountain, where the path
turns towards the cavern. These rough shanties were in
the middle of a large heap of stinking mud, in the clear
shadow thrown by some lofty walnut trees, whose foliage
was flooded in sunshine. Not a sign of any living
creature was to be seen; all was silence. An empty
basket near the closed doors, a bit of rope tied to the
woodwork over the well, the deep dark valley, and the
distant murmur of invisible waterfalls deepened the
silence of the spot. The path pointed out by Rico led
between the stables ; Marina followed another narrow
pathway, leading up to a little chapel. She motioned to
Edith to sit down, and added quietly, —
‘ Let us wait for them to pass us.’
In the little chapel was a picture of the Saviour,
crowned with thorns, a hideous painting, at the foot of
which was the inscnption :
‘ O passer-by ! though I appear a monster,
I am Jesus Christ, thy Lord and Master.*
The grass around them still glistened with dew, and
the breeze, which lightly stirred the leaves of the walnut
trees, was cool and fresh.
p
226
MALOMBRA
Edith looked at the picture, the pious offering of
simple folk to the King of Suffering, and her heart was
filled with a sad and tender pity ; a thousand thoughts
passed through her mind — the faith of the poor, unskilled
artist, of the simple poet, of the rough, peasant women
who, on their way to the fields, or when they returned
wearied out in the evening, would raise their eyes to
this poor daub with deeper veneration than they would
have felt in looking at a Virgin by Luino. Edith tried
to pursue this line of thought but could not do so;
she felt as though a hard, cold chain was wound about
her. In a confused way she discerned the disturbing
influence of a human spirit close to her and antagonistic
to her, stirred by other^ passions, haughty and reserved.
Between her and the sunlight stood the tall form of
Marina, tracing characters in the dust with the tip of
her umbrella, looking down steadily at the ground, her
lips pursed 5 her dark shadow fell across Edith, and
seemed to freeze her blood.
Meanwhile, the voices of the rest of the party came
nearer and nearer, A hasty step was heard among the
stables, and a minute later the bright face of Eico
appeared behind the chapel. Catching sight of the two
ladies, he suddenly halted and opened his lips to speakj
when a flashing glance from Marina cut him short He
ran quickly up to some mulberry bushes, plucked some
of the fruit and ran down the hill. The deep voices of
the commendaton could be heard near the stables.
Finotti was telling naughty stones with much richness of
expression, after the manner of worn-out rouh^ who seek
for the energy of youth in licentiousness of language.
Femeri could be heard remarking with a laugh, —
‘Nastiness inspires you.’
Marina, herself indifferent, gave a rapid glance towards
IN THE CA VERN
227
Edith \ but the latter, incapable of understanding such
allusions, neither moved a muscle nor changed colour.
Her companion shrugged her shoulders and waited in
silence till the voices died away, then sat down beside her.
‘The information I spoke of,' she said, ‘touches a
person with whom you will become acquainted at Milan.'
Edith looked at her in surpnse ; Marina made a shght
gesture of impatience. Edith then remembered the
interrupted conversation on the lake.
‘Are you sure,' she replied, ‘that I shall know this
person ? '
‘You will have to know him.’
* Have to ? '
‘Yes, have to. Not to please me, but because it will
happen so. You will meet this person at Milan, he
being a friend of your father's.'
‘ His name is Silla,'
Marina's eyes flashed,
‘ How do you know ? ' she asked.
‘ My father has spoken to me about his friend.’
* What did he say ? '
Edith did not answer,
‘ Are you afraid ? ' said Marina, harshly.
Edith coloured.
‘ I don't know that word,' she rejoined.
After a brief pause Edith raised her eyes and looked
at Marina.
‘ It is the truth,' she said.
* The truth 1 Don't talk of the truth. Nobody knows
what IS the truth. Your father will have said to you
that I insulted this gentleman.'
‘Yes.'
* And that one night he disappeared ? '
‘Yes.'
22 $
MALOMBEA
‘Disappeared completely? Did he not tell you his
present whereabouts? Of course he did^ you do not
wish to repeat it to me, but your father certamly told
you/
‘I imagine/ replied Edith, with a slight touch of
offended pride, — * I imagine that my conversations with
my father are a matter of mdifierence to you. I know
that a Signor SiUa, of Milan, is a friend of my father’s,
perhaps his only acquaintance in that city. This made
me think that you were alluding to him, and I men-
tioned his name. Perhaps you will kindly tell me what
it IS you desire of me in the event of my meeting this
gentleman.’
Marina stood for a moment lost in thought, with her
forefinger on her cbm, as though a ‘yes’ and a ‘no’
were contesting for mastery withm her; then a flame
of passion seemed to nse from the earth and enwrap
the beautiful figure. She trembled from head to foot,
her bosom rose and fell, her lips parted, there was a
mysterious light in her eyes.
Edith started, expecting some strange utterance.
But the words came not. Her lips met, her person
became composed, the strange light in the eyes died
away.
‘It is nothing,’ said she, ‘let us be going.’
Edith did not move.
‘ Come,’ repeated Marina, ‘you are too German. All
I wish to know is where Signor Silla lives and what he
is doing. Let me know quickly. Will you ? ’
‘Even in Germany,’ rejoined Edith, ‘people have
some understanding and some feeling. I have no wish
to know your secret, but if there is any good service
which I can render — ’
‘Ah, virtue 1 egotism I ’ said Marina. At this moment
IN THE CAVERN
229
a poor old woman, bending double beneath a great
basket of hay, appeared in the path between the stables,
stood still in front of Marina, and painfully raising her
head towards her, with a benevolent smile, said, in
a tone of surprise, —
‘ Good-day to your ladyships. You are taking a little
walk ? ’
She was a living image of squalid misery, sprung from
the fetid soil and ruined buildings, barefooted, with
thin black legs like those of a bird of prey, her chin
resting on either side upon a large, smooth, reddish
goitre, and a tangled mass of grey locks hanging over
her forehead. Her eyes were soft and clear,
‘ Poor woman, poor woman ! ’ said Edith.
‘ Not so very poor either. Not that I am a lady, by
no means, but my old man still earns something, and as
long as I can, for Fm seventy-three years old and more,
I want to carry my basket for another year or two. Be-
sides, the Lord is over us two as well as others. And so,
my service to you, ladies, and good luck to you. May
you have a pleasant walk.’
She again bent her head beneath her load, and was
about to renew, with shaking steps, her road among the
flints and the heaps of broken tiles and filth. Marina
pulled out her ivory-mounted purse and hastily thrust it
into the woman’s hand.
‘Ah, holy Madonna!’ exclaimed the old dame,
‘I don’t want it, dear lady. I have no need of it,
indeed. Well, well,’ she added, alarmed by a gesture
and glance of Marina’s. ‘Ah, your ladyship, it is
too much. Well, well, as your ladyship pleases. Ah,
my lady 1 ’
‘ Good day,’ said Marina, and passed on.
Picking her way through the mass of filth and putre-
230 MALOMBRA
faction, she turned round j there was a kindly look on
Edith’s face.
‘I am not a religious girl/ said Marina. ‘I shall
not expect this to be repaid to me by God. I don’t
make myself amiable to those I hate, with the noble
object of acquiring a ticket to Paradise. For the rest,
you can only do for me what I have already said ; write
to me where Signor Silla lives, and what he is doing.’
Edith said nothmg.
‘ Are you afraid,’ said Marina, ^ that I wish to get him
assassinated ? ’
‘ Oh, no j I know quite well that you don’t love him,’
replied Edith, smiling.
Marina felt her heart gripped by an ice-cold hand. At
that moment she was passing the well. She rested her
arms on the stonework and looked down into the water.
The word ‘ love ’ was ringing in her ears. ‘ Don’t love,’
Edith had said, but the negation had fallen unheeded,
not so the magical word, love. It was with Manna as
with some musical chord enclosing a certain note, silent
until a voice passing through the room touches that same
note among others, and then at once the whole chord
vibrates with Icme^ love, love. At the bottom of the well’s
black tube shone a httle white disc broken by a dark
human head. Marina, in a low tone, involuntarily called
out, —
* Cecilia.*
The voice struck the echoing water, and travelled back
again with a sinister booming sound. Marina stood up
and resumed her way in silence.
They skirted the sides of the mountain, which here
stretched away on the right down to the banks of the
stream. The roar of the distant waterfalls, which they
had heard at the stables, seemed to be carried straight
IN THE CAVERN
231
towards them by the wind from the valley ; no mighty
flow of water could be seen ; they could only guess its
whereabouts as being in a narrow gorge in front of them,
shut m by more mountains, topped by dark clouds, and
in a long, shady, winding chasm which descended from
the gorge into the valley between dark, banging woods,
broken by red landslips, and bordered by a broad ring
of small fields and green meadows shinmg in the sunlight.
At one side of the gorge would be seen a white church
perched on a juttmg rock, and beneath it a thick sprink-
ling of dark roofs and small huts nestling in the fields.
Neat pasture lands were formed on the steep sides of the
mountains to nght and left, sprinkled with clumps of
trees and dark with herds of cattle, whose tmkling bells
formed one sweet, quivering voice. The pathway led
down grassy slopes gay with flowers that waved in the
fresh autumn breeze.
Marina stopped and looked towards the entrance to a
cave at the head of the valley.
* It must be there,’ she said.
* What ? ’ asked Edith.
‘The Horror. That noise comes from there. The
Horror has a great fascination for me to-day.’
‘Why?’
‘ Because I wish to go in there with my cousin. You
are silent and unmoved. Can’t you imagine what one’s
feelings would be in a cavern alone with him? Have
you resisted my cousin’s fascinating ways? Two eyes
that go straight to the heart And what wit 1 He is
saturated with it, dear boy 1 And his elegant appearance.
Why, he is a Watteau^ is my cousin. He ought to be
all red and white, a shape of golden cream, a honhon.
Don’t you think so ? Now, wouldn’t you envy me if I
became Countess Salvador?’
MALOMBRA
S32
* I can see that you’ll never be that.’
‘Why so? I knew somebody who married out of
hate.’
‘ But not out of contempt, I imagine.’
‘ Out of both together. They are two feelings which
can very well find lodging in the same high heel of the
same httle shoe. The person I refer to made use of
them to foukr aux fieds her husband, and many other
odious and contemptible creatures ’
To Edith it appeared impossible that such language
should be used on this lofty spot, amid the solemn purity
of the mountains. She thought of her mother in her
distant grave; if she could see her daughter in such
company, if she could hear these speeches ! But Edith
was in no danger. She was not ignorant of evil, but she
lived secure in her own conscious innocence. She
allowed Marina to go on talking as she pleased.
* My friend was in love with somebody else. Are you
shocked?’
Edith did not answer.
‘Come, don’t let us behave as though your worthy
father or my uncle or some other person in trowsers were
here. How old are you ? ’
‘ Twenty.’
‘ Very well Then you must know pretty well what
things go on in the world. Not a word , let me continue.
I don't believe in certain kmds of innocence. Well, my
friend had a lover, and wished, never mind why, to reach
him by passing, with her little high-heeled boot, over a
contemptible husband and a hateful family. Where is
the harm? Men prohibit this and that. Well and
good. Y$t, by what right? Those whom God joins
together let no man put asunder. That is about it, is it
not? Very well. That is a beautiful idea and a grand
IN TEE C A VEEN
233
one. The priests are stupid with their versions of it. I
ask you whether it is God who puts on surphce and stole,
and mumbles half-a-dozen words to join together, at
haphazard, two bodies and two souls. God joins them
together before they love one another, before they see
one another, before they are born. He carries them
through space, the one to the other * Therefore, those
who are joined together by some man, or by family
arrangement, by calculation, by mistake, by a priest who
knows not what he is doing, such as these God puts
asunder. What was I saying? My friend passed on in
hatred and contempt ; thus she passed on.’
She stepped forward, her frame shaken with passion,
and stamped with such energy upon the ground that
Edith half expected to see sparks fly from it.
In the distance was heard a shrill voice, —
‘Signora Donna Marina.’
It was the voice of Rico. He soon appeared running ;
on seeing his mistress he left off running and called
out, —
‘They say, will your ladyship be so good and — ’
Marina hastily beckoned with her umbrella for him to
come on.
He at once ceased calling out, broke into a run and
arrived breathless, looking quite solemn with the re-
sponsibility of his oflSce of ambassador, and his anxiety
not to leave out any portion of his message.
‘ They say, will your ladyship be so good and walk on
a little faster, because it is getting late and the Countess
is waiting down below,’
‘Where are they?’ said Marina.
‘ One is not far off and is coming to meet you, and
the others are at the cave.’
They had not gone far before they came across his
234
MALOMBRA
Excellency Nepo, sitting on his handkerchief on a bank
by the roadside. He was looking about him with a
frightened air, fanning himself with a little Japanese fan.
When RicOj followed by the two ladies, appeared, he rose
to his feet, and forgetting for a moment what was due to
the ladies, he called out to the boy, without raising his
hat, —
* Why didn’t you wait for me, idiot ? ’
* He seems to have had some reason not to wait,’ re-
marked Marina, coldly.
‘ You are very hard on me,’ rejoined Nepo, in a low
tone.
This suggestive tone of intimacy did not please Marina,
who inquired drily, —
* How far is it to the Horror ? ’
‘ We shall be there in a few minutes,’ muttered Rico,
between his teeth.
‘Gracious goodness, it’s an eternity,’ wailed Nepo.
‘ Not a very brilliant idea to make us take this frightful
climb. Vezza and Finotti are half dead. I am a great
walker, and I remember that when I was a student I
walked up from Torreggia to the convent at Rua, no
bagatelle, I can tell you j but here, I don’t know why, but
it’s a different kind of walking. One gets more tired
over a shorter course. How am I to express it? With
us the mountains are more accommodating.’
He took advantage of a moment when Edith had
stepped on one side to pluck a flower, and said to
Marina, not without a touch of grievance in his tone
and look, —
* And your answer ? ’
Marina looked at him.
‘Very soon,’ she said.
‘When?’
IN THE CA VEEN
»35
‘ Come to the Horror with me/
Nepo did not seem very well satisfied, but he could
not ask for an explanation because Marina had her arm
in Edith’s, and he required all his breath to keep pace
with them.
The commendatori and Ferrieri were seated near the
door of the inn at C , upon a bench drawn up against
the wall, and were talking to an old bald-headed man in
shirt sleeves, with a brick-coloured complexion, who was
squatting on the doorstep of the hostelry, with a long
pole between his bare legs. He was the worthy Charon
of the Horror.
The Horror is only a few hundred yards from the
village. The river rises a few miles higher up, the
waters gather in bulk among the wild caves between the
sloping sides of two mountains, then the river runs
smoothly in the open for a brief distance, and then, near
the village, falls from cascade to cascade till it reaches
the end of the valley, and feebly expires in the lake at
the point where the present company left their boats.
Leaving C , one soon came across a slight wooden
bridge, the shadow of which falls across the river, here
and there flecked with foam, across green pools and
white pebbles. Leaving the bndge on the right, one
keeps to the left along the bed of the river. Here the
gentle stream runs laughing and babbling among the
bright verdure of the virgin woods, though with a few
shivering recollections of past fears. A few low rocks
jut out from the banks, covered with dark mosses,
blades of grass, and stately ciclami. Following the
line of the river, one observes the two banks rise on
the right and left against the sky, in two leafy masses of
lofty woods gleammg in the sun ; oaks, beeches, ash trees,
sorb-trees, in tier upon tier, bending forward as though
MALOMBRA
23^
to see the laughing waters pass, and waving their
branches as though in applause. Soon after this the
river makes a bend. No more sunshine, no more ver-
dure, no more laughing waters; huge jaws of stone
stand gaping wide open before you, causing you to
halt when you hear the deep roar that issues from
them, and feel the cold breath of that dark and mon-
strous gullet. The roar comes from the very entrails
of the earth ; the water passes through that rocky mouth
in a dark, voluminous, but silent stream. A small leaky
boat is here, chained to a ring fastened to the rock. It
can carry two persons in addition to the boatman. One
goes up the stream in this little boat, which apparently
has no desire for the task. It twists its head now to
the right, now to the left, and would slip away down the
stream but for Charon's pole. The uproar increases,
the light begins to fail. The boat passes between two
lines of black rocks, enormous stalactites, here in swell-
ing outline like some weird forest growth ; there hollow,
dripping, like inverted heads ; but all in rows, at equal
intervals, carved from base to summit with spiral lines.
High above, the sky seems to shrink smaller and smaller
between the rocks, till it finally disappers. The little
boat enters a dark chasm which resounds with howls ;
it quivers from stern to stem, dashes against the rock
on the right, dashes against it on the left, mad with
terror, under the echoing arches of rock, whose entrails
are gnawed away by the swiftly - flowing stream, and
which rise, twisting and contorted, upwards. From the
narrow rent in the leafy mantle of these locks a greenish
gleam, a spectral light which tinges the jutting points of
rock, grows fainter as it passes from stone to stone, and
dies away before reaching the dark green water beneath ;
it is like a ray of moonlight half hidden in clouds at day-
m THE CAVERN
break. Through this gallery one enters the ‘throne
room,’ a round, gloomy chamber with a mass of rock in
the centre, like a rough pulpit or reading-desk for low
Mass, standing upright between two enormous clouds of
foaming water which encircle its sides, and stream on
into a wide passage, all roar and flying mist, like two
express trains passing side by side through a tunnel. It
IS from that rocky mass that the cavern takes its name of
the throne room. One thinks of some prince of dark-
ness seated upon that throne, lost in meditation, his
glance fixed on the deep waters full of woe and wail-
ing, full of tortured souls. Through a fissure behind
the throne a bright jet of light irradiates the cave.
Charon shoved off the little boat from the rock to
which it was chained, and with a powerful thrust sent it
into midstream. Meanwhile, Rico was skipping like a
wagtail over the rocks above water level, while some half-
dozen urchins who had perched on a big stone behind the
party, observed them gravely like a lot of little birds watch-
ing the movements of a big owl. Vezza, who knew little
about scenic beauties, and Finotti, who knew nothing at
all, noisily expressed their admiration of this awe-inspir-
ing place. Ferrieri did not join the chorus of en-
thusiasm, and chatted quietly to Edith. He said that
such scenes as these made him feel cold as ice ever
since, when he was quite a boy, a poet had been crushed
to death in the heart of this cavern, an unpleasant in-
mate in such a place. He added that he now, for the
first time, had doubts whether that wretched being were
in truth dead; he seemed to hear something moving
about ; he began to feel unusually hot —
‘ Forwards, ladies and gentlemen,’ cried Marina.
Charon had just brought the small boat alongside, and
he signed to the two ladies to get in.
MALOMBRA
238
‘ My cousin and 1/ said Marina, ‘ will come last.’
‘ Then you and I will go first, Miss Edith.'
Thus saying, Ferrieri wrapped about the shoulders of
his fair companion the blue shawl which she carried on
her arm. Edith hardly noticed this; she seemed fas-
cinated by the sombre beauty of the rocky pillars stretch-
ing away in front of her. They both got m and the
boat moved away. The boat, passing through those
gloomy arcades, made a pretty picture, with the bright
blue shawl and the picturesque figure of the old boat
man standing upright at the prow, with his long pole.
They soon disappeared, first Charon, then the blue
shawl, then the brown lines of the httle boat.
After about ten minutes they reappeared, the iron
tipped pole, Charon, the blue shawl. ‘ Well ? Well ? '
called out Vezza and Finotti.
There was no reply. As they stepped out, Edith and
Ferrieri uttered a few cold words of admiration. Edith
looked grave and sad ; the engineer was blushing to the
roots of his hair ; the old boatman waited stolidly for
his second boat-load. Edith remained near Manna,
and Ferrieri walked away with downcast eyes. Finotti
and Vezza went off in the boat together, unudllingly.
Nepo was ill at ease. He said nothing, but was con-
tinually on the move, looking here, looking there, and
shaking his head to shake off the pince-nez which he no
longer wore. Two or three times he even stepped into
the water and passed over the rocks into the middle of
the torrent to watch for the returning boats. "When he
was some way off, Marina said, sotto voce^ to Edith, point-
ing towards Ferrien, —
‘ He is like the others, eh? in spite of his gentlemanly
ways 1 I knew as soon as you got out of the boat. Men
are all alike ! ’
IN THE C A VEEN
239
' It is a shame, it is a shame 1 ’ said the young girl,
shuddering,
* Was he very rude ? ’
Edith blushed. ‘Whoever is lacking in respect to-
wards me, even for a moment, and with the slightest act,
is very rude,’ she replied.
‘Signor Ferrieri,’ said Marina, raising her voice. Fer«
rieri turned round. He tried to appear at his ease, and
failed.
‘Would you be so kind as to go down and join
Countess Fosca. She must be very dull all alone. This
young lady and I will come later on with the boy, pro-
bably by a different road.’
In Marina’s ringing voice there was the instinctive re-
sentment of a woman who finds a man, even if she does
not care for him, at the feet of another woman. Femeri
bowed and went away.
‘ What I have done is unusual,’ said Marina to Edith.
^ An old chaperon would hardly do such a thing. I did
it on your account, to prevent your finding yourself again
iete- 0 L~ttie with that bald-headed Lovelace who causes you
such disgust; besides, I don’t always trouble myself
about what other people do.’
‘ Thank you,’ said Edith.
The boat returned with the two commendatori
* Count,’ said Marina.
Nepo was on the point of replying ‘Countess,’ but
only opened his lips, and then followed Marina into the
boat.
* And Ferrieri ? ’ asked Vezza.
‘ He has gone down the hill before us,’ replied Marina.
But she was soon quite close to the bank, and her
words could hardly be heard above the sullen roar of the
stream.
240
MALOMBRA
She drew her shawl about her, turning her head to
avoid the cold wind which sprinkled her with minute
drops of the water dripping from the rocks. With dull
eyes she gazed into the gloom, out of which issued the
heavy, swift, silent, glassy river.
The boat approached the gloomy entrance to the
* throne room/ The face of the old man, standing at
the prow as they passed among the black shining rocks,
took a darker hue; the blows of the iron-tipped pole
were drowned by the deafening roar of the hidden water-
falls. It was almost too dark to see. Nepo lent over
towards Marina and took her hand.
* Ah * ’ she said, as though offended ; but she did not
withdraw her hand. Nepo pressed it within his own and
felt happy ; he knew not what to say ; eveiything seemed
already said ; he kept on pressing that cold, inert hand,
as though he wished to squeeze out of it an idea, a word,
a phrase. Then he had an idea. He kept Marina’s hand
in his left, and with his right arm encircled her waist.
Marina gave a shudder and threw herself forwards.
* Steady there, in Heaven’s name I ’ roared the boatman.
But one could now neither see nor hear. The unbroken
roar of the water caused a painful contraction of chest
and forehead.
Nepo released his embrace. He did not understand
that sudden movement of Marina's. He talked to her ;
he felt as though he were talking with his head under
water; but in his amazement he went on talking.
Then he felt Marina’s waist agam fall back against his
arm. He quivered with delight, and eagerly spread out
the fingers which lay across her bosom, like the claw of
some impure animal gathering courage from the dark-
ness ; he spread out his fingers in the desire to embrace
the whole of her voluptuous person, to pass below her
IN THE CA VEEN
241
draperies and grasp the warm, living form beneath.
Marina had thrown herself back in the blind desire to
crush that arm, which stung her like a whip, and she
turned upon Nepo to insult him, but he could neither
hear nor see. The water, the wind, the very stones,
shrieked a hundred times louder, ever louder and louder
still. They crushed in their wrath, in their gigantic
anguish, the petty anger, the contemptible troubles of
humanity. They crushed the words and flung them
away in confusion, like dust before the wind. Brutal,
all-powerful nature wished to be heard alone. Nepo
felt the warm bosom of Marina fall and rise, heaving
beneath his touch ; he seemed to distinguish amid the
uproar a faint human voice ; he imagined words of love,
as he breathed m the intoxicating perfume of her dressj
and his lips sought hers in the darkness.
Just then a vigorous shove with the pole made the
boat swing round the last comer of the dark passage and
emerge into a greenish light, which seemed to rise out of
the clear water. Nepo had not time to see Marina’s face.
The old boatman had turned round towards them. Nepo
quickly let go of Marina, and pretended to be gazing up
at the roof. The old boatman had moored the boat
against a rock, by pressing the tip of his pole against the
opposite wall, and soon waved his free arm with vigorous
gestures, as he pointed out the cavities and weird ex-
crescences of the rocks.
‘ Splendid ! ’ cried Nepo.
Charon touched his ear and shook his forefinger in
negation ; then he spread out his hand and waved it up
and down, nodding at the same time with his head, as
though to promise something yet more beautiful, and
again took to his pole,
Marina, pale, with lips pressed together, her shawl
Q
MALOMBRA
242
wrapped tightly about her, seemed like some sinful soul,
which in disdain had sought refuge in the shadows of
these infernal regions, her nervous tension yielding place
to stupefaction.
The * throne-room ’ opened out in front of the boat like
a vision of greenish gold, with its huge unpolished
cupola; the black rock in the centre, the thundering
stream foaming and boiling along the stalactite-covered
walls. But the boat, instead of going there, turned aside
to the right and glided into a quiet bay of smooth water,
where it grounded on the sand. A gigantic breakwater
of stone descended from the roof and formed this little
channel, which it sheltered on one side from the roar of
the torrent.
By speaking loud one could here make oneself heard.
The boatman asked Marina whether she liked the Horror,
adding, with an air of kindly sympathy, that all the gentle-
folk liked it For his own part, the only thing he admired
in it were the trout He added that there were a great
many just there, and wanted Nepo and Marina to turn
round and look down into the water, promising that they
would see some flash along the bottom. Nepo, turning
round, just brushed against Marina’s glove.
* Don’t touch me,’ said she, harshly, without looking at
him.
He attributed this remark to the fact that they were
now in a bright ray of light, and the only notice he took
of it was to say roughly to the boatman, —
*What do we want with your trout, idiot? Shove
off!*
His ill-bred insolence to his inferiors had once got him
a cuff on the head from a waiter in a cafe at Turin, and
might have got him something worse from Charon ; but
the latter only caught the last two words, and again guiding
m THE CAVERH
245
the boat into midstream, poled it into the big cave, and
fastening it against the ‘throne,’ where the water was
calmer, he resumed his rdle of silent cicerone.
With a wave of his hand he showed them that they
could climb up into the rock, and thence, through a cleft
up in the rocky roof, escape from the Horror. Marina
threw away her shawl, jumped on to the seat of the boat,
and rejecting all assistance from the astomshed boatman,
she found a foothold on the jutting edges of the rock, and
in two bounds was on the top. From there she impen-
ously signed to Nepo to follow her. Nepo, standing up
in the boat, began to feel the rock with his hands, wavered,
then glanced sideways at the boatman. The latter lifted
Nepo up bodily and placed him against the rock, and
when, by clutchmg at it with hands and feet, he had got a
firm hold, shoved him up from behind with the palms of
his hands till he reached the top.
The water, which entered in a flashing, thundering
stream through the cleft in the rock, divided at the back
of the throne mto two foaming branches, which then girt
it about. From the throne one passed across to the open
air by a long, narrow plank laid upon jutting rocks. This
path was used by the trout fishers.
Marina, followed by Nepo, stepped along the plank,
after telling the boatman to wait for them.
At the exit from the Horror they came upon a scene so
rugged that it would have seemed one of desolation, had
one not just left the cavern below. The torrent rushed
down in an open stream over huge stone steps, flashing
in the sunshine like a net of silver thread, in large, irregular
rings, and then thundered on through two high, jutting
crags, which seemed about to close, one on the top of the
other, half quite bare, half clothed in ragged tatters of
woodland verdure.
244
MALOMBRA
Marina climbed up to some stunted yew trees, which,
with their black foliage, brushed against a huge rock
beside the mouth of the Horror, where the terrible roar
partly died away.
Nepo followed her with great difficulty, clutching hold
of tufts of grass with his hands. He halted a few paces
from Manna to take breath
‘ Stop there/ she said. ‘ You have more courage in the
dark.’
‘ Oh, well,’ said Nepo, ‘I am not going to stop now.’
‘Stop where you are ! ’
Nepo stood still with clouded brow, ill at ease.
At first he had imagined that she wished to procure an
interview away from the prying eyes of the boatman.
Now he did not understand it He was irritated with
Marina ^ but in the last few minutes he had had a new
feelmg, or rather a new sensation.
From the little velvet hand, from the warm, heaving
bosom that he had clasped, an unwonted commotion
had passed through his frame, unwonted in him, who
boasted that he was a man among women and an angel
among ladies.
Both were silent for a minute.
‘And so you wish it?’ said Marina.
‘ Ah r replied Nepo, stretching out his arm.
A new pause.
‘Why do you wish it?^
‘What a thing to ask, great Heavens ! ’
‘ Isn’t it ? ’ said she, smiling ; * you are right.’
She looked at him with that penetrating glance of hers
which appeared and disappeared at will. Then raising
her voice, she said, —
‘ But I don’t love you.’
‘ Oh, my own darling ! ’ said Nepo, not catching the
IN THE C A VEEN
245
‘don^t/ as he clambered up to where she stood. She
stepped back in surprise.
* I don’t love you,’ she repeated.
Nepo turned pale and grew silent ; then he broke forth
in a low, excited voice, —
‘ You don’t love me ? What do you mean ? — you don’t
love me ? And five minutes ago, in that boat, in the
dark.’
‘ Really 1 Did you think so ? ’
‘ Oh, good Heavens ! If that boat could only speak ! ’
* It would speak ill of you. You h^ve made a mistake ;
I don’t care for you.’
Nepo looked at her with arched eyebrows and parted
lips.
‘And yet I accept you,’ she said.
Nepo uttered a smothered ‘ ah 1 ’ his face brightened,
and he held out his hands towards her.
‘Well, are you satisfied?’ said she.
Nepo wished to reply by kissing her, but she was
in a mood to hit him in the chest with her parasol
‘ Go back at once,’ she said ; ‘ the boatman might go
away. I am not coming with you ; I am going round the
Horror, outside. No, I am not coming. You come
with me? I don’t want your company. Go along!
Aren’t you happy now? Tell Signorina Steinegge and
the boy to wait for me at the bridge. Don’t wait for us
at dinner, even. But when you get home, tell your
mother, tell my uncle. Soon, before I return. Be off.’
He did not hke the idea. He begged and prayed for
a kiss, but didn’t get one ; even her little velvet hand,
even the hem of her garment he asked to press to his lips,
and was refused.
He seized her parasol and kissed that ; it was at least
hers. The water and the leaves of the forest laughed
246
MALOMBI^A
at him, and he went away, contented and discontented
at the same time ; agitated by that confused poetry of
sensations which is something above ordinary desire, and
which, at least once in a lifetime, plants in each soul
its own vital energy, its own sad, transient bloom.
\Yhen Marina reached the bridge she found Edith and
Rico waiting for her. They silently retraced the road
which they had gone over that morning until they
reached an old stone upon which was inscribed, with an
arrow pointing accordingly, ‘ To the mountains.’ Here
they followed a little path leading towards a little hill in
a dip in the mountains between the cluster of bare rocks
above C y and some wooded mountain ridges.
They had got near the hill, when Marina, who was
leading, suddenly stood still, and said brusquely, —
‘ I have been honest, you know.’
Edith did not understand, and made no reply.
She did not enter into the feverish emotions which
quivered in the voice and shone in the eyes of Marina.
All her own mind was absorbed in the contemplation of
the valley, which offered an ever-changing spectacle;
glimpses of the sky which opened out amid the undulat-
ing"lines of green tree tops, which in turn mingled with
blue mountain summits ; the tremulous note of the
sheep-bells among the pastures, the clear, solemn sound
of water flowing along distant valleys and smiling
meadows, then crossmg a road and disappeanng in the
distance.
She began to walk more slowly, looking at the sky so
still and clear above the rugged mountains, which,
bnlhant in the rays of the sun, towards which they all
seemed to be looking, appeared united in some mighty
thought, in some sublime prayer without words. She
sighed, and, as she did so, felt that silent spirit of the
IN THE C A VEEN
247
mountains enter her heart. She failed to understand
how one could think of aught else. She no longer felt,
as in the morning, the malign influence of Marina , she
was free. Reaching the mountain ridge, she said, as
she looked down at the scene which opened out before
her, —
‘ It is a piece of poetry.’
Marina did not open her lips. Edith noticed, as she
went up to her, that her eyes were full of tears. She
stood still, surprised.
Marina forcibly seized her by the arm, and, giving
Rico a sign to go on ahead, left the pathway and began
walking rapidly over an adjoining meadow. Suddenly she
flung her arms round her companion’s neck, and burst
into heart-rending sobs. She sobbed and sobbed, as
she leant on Edith’s slight shoulder, convulsively press-
ing her arm, speaking with her lips touching her dress,
and every now and then violently shaking her head.
Edith, greatly moved, was trembling from head to foot.
She heard the resonant sound of that choking voice,
and was unable to distinguish a single word j her heart
was filled with pity, as though it had understood all
that was being sobbed out above it ; she felt an over-
powering need of finding words of comfort, and she
could think of none. She kept repeating, * Calm your-
self, calm yourself,’ but without eflfect, for Marina only
shook her head more violently than ever. She bent
down and laid her lips against her hair, hesitating a
moment, struggling with some secret thought ; finally she
kissed that haughty head, now so greatly humiliated, and
at once felt consolation, as from a victory gained! Little
by little the fit of sobbing passed away. Marina slowly
raised her head, and released Edith from her embrace.
* It is over,’ she said, * thank you.*
MALOMBRA
ns
‘Talk to me/ said Edith, affectionately ; ‘ if you could
only see into my heart/
‘ I have talked to you,’ replied IMarina, ‘ I have told
you all/
She again gave two or three convulsive, tearless sobs.
Edith begged her to sit down. ‘ No, no,’ she replied,
* it is over/ She bit her lip till the blood came, and re-
peated hurriedly, ‘ It is over, it is over.’ She was leaning
against a great white mass of rock, which the winter
frosts had carv^ed and fretted like lace work, and which
projected above the grass, among the brambles, like the
huge shoulder of some fossil monster only half buried-
Marina was standing with her back against the stone, her
head turned over her right shoulder, with her eyes fixed
on the hand which she had twined and twisted among
the weird fretwork of the stone,
‘ But tell me,’ said Edith
Marina turned her head and plucked the blue flower
from a long stalk near her.
‘ What flower is it ? ’ said she, brusquely ; ‘ it looks like
wolfsbane,’ and she held it out to Edith. The latter took
the flower without looking at it, she was going to press
her to tell her more. Marina was again seized with a
violent, nervous paroxysm. This time she clung to the
rock, and smothered her sobs against it. She seemed
to desire to enter the stone and freeze there, and grow
stiff and cold for ever.
And around her all was peace *
The cows’ bells filled with their tremulous music the
solemn silence of the mountains, made the sounds of
innocent life resound across the pastures and across the
neat copses with the green and gold tints of the young
beech trees, as the poor beasts went round the scattered
metal drinking troughs filled with stagnant water. Near
m THE CAFE EH
249
the big stone, the wolfsbane raised its handsome flowers
in the fading sunlight, and the ferns curved their bright
spring fronds, and the vain ciclami raised their tall stalks
bare of flowers. Everything around Manna spoke of
peace, of grave and solemn quietude.
Far off one could hear the voice of Rico calling, —
‘Uuh-hup» Uuh-hupJ’
And the voices of the herdsmen in reply, —
* Uuh-hup ! Uuh-hup * ’
It sounded like a farewell to the sun, whose departing
rays had left the grass, and were now lighting up the top
of the white rock. The scattered tremulous music of
the bells approached from all sides towards C ,
which nestled in a grassy valley beneath the jutting mass
of bare rocks. The cows were walking along in rows, in
little troops, one close behind the other on the narrow
path, trotting down the little sloping hillocks, breaking
away gently from the main body as they reached the
meadows, now and then halting to raise their heads and
low.
Rico kept on shouting, —
* Uuh-hup ! ’
Marina gave a start, turned to Edith and said, —
‘ Let us be going. Now it is really over.’
Edith once more begged her to tell her all about it,
to confide in her.
‘I have told you all,^ Marina replied once more. ‘I
could not again repeat what I said. I do not feel it as I
did then. Let us suppose that there was in me a feel-
ing, of whose existence I was ignorant. All of a sudden
it has flamed up, has seized me by the throat, in the
brain, all over. It was but a flame of fire which now is
dead. I do not feel it any more. I know not whether
it was grief or fear. As you know, when one enters upon
250
MALOMBRA
an unknown path, the doubt often arises, “If I am
mating a mistake ? If I lose my way ? It does not
last, but it comes. Listen to what I am going to say ;
If in the future you hear people speak ill of me, say
things against me, remember this evening. Then per-
haps you will understand.’
‘I hope I shall never hear people saying things against
you’
‘Ah*’
When they regained the road they found Rico patiently
waiting for them. It was late, the evening vras chilly.
They hastily walked down the hill towards Val .
Manna did not speak, she was wrapt in her own thoughts.
After they had walked thus for half an hour, and not till
then, Manna took hold of Edith’s arm and said, —
‘ You must tell him.*
‘ Tell whom? ’ replied Edith.
Marina gave a shiver, let go of Edith’s arm, and said
no more.
The white rock eaten away by the frost, rising up
among the brambles, the ferns, and the wolfsbane, be-
neath the pale evening sky, divined, perchance, through
what secret sorrows that body and soul had come to fling
themselves against his hard, cold, pitiless sides. If there
slumbered within him the dull troubled spirit, the
insensatufn cor of the mountains, he could dream how
another spirit, but newly linked to wickedness and mis-
fortune, had hastened to knock roughly, almost to
shatter itself against him, in an impetus of horrible grief,
welling up from depths beyond human knowledge to
fathom. He could dream how much suffering exists,
even beyond his own blind prison-house, in the long-
desired world of sensation, thought, and love. The
bells of the cattle could now no longer be heard, from
CHAPTER V
A DECREE OF FATE
It was striking eight o'clock as Edith and Marina
amved at the stone steps between the cypresses. The
stars were shining, but the huge old trees hid them to
such an extent that Rico, like a good cavalier, halted,
and called out at the top of his voice, — ‘ Lights there 1 '
After which he sprang down the steps like a cat into the
darkness beyond.
A light appeared in the loggia, and a voice cried out,
* Here I am.'
Then the light disappeared.
‘ Oh, Miss Fanny 1 ' replied the boy, ‘ bring the light
here. Make haste ! '
The light quickly reappeared in the courtyard.
Edith and Marina, as they slowly descended the hill,
could hear a conversation going on between Rico and
Fanny, and, from time to time, the voice of Countess
Fosca. Fanny had a candle and Rico a small lantern.
The Countess kept on saying, ‘Haven't you found
Momolo ? Haven’t you found Momolo ? ’
‘ No, my lady, we have found no Momolos about here.
Do you take the candle, Miss Fanny, and I will go on
with the lantern.’
Fanny and the Countess approached the flight of
steps.
252
A DECREE OF FATE 253
^ Marina 1 ^ called out her Excellency.
‘ Countess/ replied the still invisible Marina.
‘ Haven’t you come across my son, darling ? Haven’t
you found Momolo ? Good heavens, what a Calvary of
a staircase ! I am surprised about Momolo, because I
sent him out to meet you only five mmutes ago. My
son went out half an hour since. Wait a moment, you
there with the light! Who are you, my sweet youth?
What a miserable broken down set of steps these are !
Ah, here we are. Where are you, Marina ? Come here,
dear child 1 Hold up that candle, in Heavens name !
Dear me, Marina, I can’t see you yet ! ’
Rico passed by her with the small lantern, taking the
steps three at a time. Presently he halted and quickly
re-descended the steps. Behind the lantern gleamed
some large steel buttons which the Countess knew.
She rushed forward and embraced Manna.
She kissed her warmly several times, and whispered
in her ear, —
* God bless you, my sweet pet, it has been my heart’s
desire.’
And she kept on kissing her.
Marina said nothing. Edith asked Fanny whether
her father was at home. Fanny did not know.
* No, my treasure,’ said the Countess, moving away from
Marina. ‘ He went out a few minutes ago with one of
those three Kings of the East ; not the stupid owl who
wanted to make me go into the Horror this morning;
the other one, the tall man from the city.’
Countess Fosca never, or hardly ever, remembered the
names of recent acquaintances. She always spoke of
the man with the long nose, the man with the crooked
mouth, the man with the spectacles.
As soon as Marina had been released from the
254 MALOMBRA
Countess's embraces she threw her a hasty au revoir
and went down the steps with Fanny.
Her Excellency took Edith's arm and followed very
slowly, talking and interrupting herself every minute in
her fear of stumbling.
MVhat an angel, Marina! Slowly. What a nice,
talented girl. Slowly, my dear child, slowly. And so
beautiful! One moment, dear, I'm not a slim, active
young thing hke you. Well, and what do you think
about it? Hasn't that naughty girl told you? Not
even a hint? What delicacy on her part! Good
Heavens, I'm slipping, child 1 Slowly, slowly. Tell me,
my pet, was she in good spirits just now as she came
down those horrible hills ? '
Edith never understood much of what the Countess
said to her, now she understood less than ever.
*She is happy, isn't she?' resumed the Countess.
* Quite happy, dear girl. Oh, I could see that. Is this
the last step? Agitated, of course, poor girl. Dear me,
we are at the bottom at last'
They crossed the courtyard, preceded by Rico with his
lantern. The long narrow rays of light passed flickering
along the shining gravel ; sprang up and grew broader as
they touched the smooth leaves of the arum lilies, and
flashed for a moment along the bnght sprays of the
fountain, which was telling and re-telling its monotonous,
melancholy tale.
Near the castle gates the Countess came to a halt and,
drawmg Edith to her, said to her, sotto wee , —
^Well, well, I will tell you. Though I have an idea
that you are a sly little puss, and know all about it.
Marina is engaged to my son.'
At that moment a plaintive voice above them called
out, —
A DECREE OF FATE
255
‘ Your Excellency I ’
‘ Who is it ? What has happened ? * said the Countess^
looking round.
* It is Momolo, your Excellency.’
* Where in the name of goodness have you got to ? ’
‘ I am here, your Excellency.’
‘ He is up there,’ said Rico, laughing like a mad thing,,
with his silvery, mocking laugh.
Running along the wall which supports the earth of
the vineyard, he raised his lantern as high as he could.
* There he is,’ he said.
Momolo’s black trousers hove in view.
* What made you get up there, stupid ? ’
lost my way, your Excellency. It seemed to me at
the time that I was not going right. If your Excellency
will have the goodness, later on, to send me the little
boy with the light, I shall find the path in a moment, 1
sh^l really.’
The little boy with the light laughed to burst himself,
‘ Have you seen Count Nepo ? ’
‘ No, your Excellency.’
'Well, this urchin will come up and show you a
light, and then you will both go together to meet Count
Nepo and inform him that the Marchesina has arrived.’
‘ As your Excellency commands.’
Rico re-ascended the steps with the lantern, and the
Countess entered the castle without noticing whether
Edith had preceded her or not
Edith was standing motionless at the same spot at which
the Countess had spoken of Manna’s engagement, and
in the same attitude. She was thunderstruck at the
news. Reflecting upon the strange speeches and the
strange demeanour of her companion on the walk home,
all that she could arrive at was this ; that she felt sorry
256
MALOMBRA
for the Salvadors and afraid of Marina. Hearing the
voice of Nepo, who came storming down the steps with
Rico and Momolo, she at last roused herself and
entered the house with another thought occupying her
mind. She was thinking of Ferrien. The latter had
not been so daring as Manna imagined. He had been
struck by Edith’s quiet and intellectual style of beauty,
and by her demeanour, which was so different from that
of other girls of his acquaintance, who were all either
too shy or too fast. He began to dream that he had
discovered a woman who resembled the lofty ideal
which he cherished in a corner of his mind kept apart
from artizans, machines and railroads, apart from his
pupils, his mstructors, and his cold scientific learning.
It seemed to him that to have this girl thrown in his way
when he was forty-two was Fortune’s last offer to him,
and all his dried-up youth was revived and renewed
within him. He had nearly made up his mind to speak
to Steinegge before speaking to Edith. In the darkness
of the Horror, standing at her side, he lost his self-
possession, seized her hands forcibly and spoke to her,
and what he said was drowned in the roar of the water.
The violence with which she repelled him, and the
expression on her face, made him understand how
greatly he had offended her. Too late, it dawned upon
him how easily, in such a place, a violent declaration of
love might be misinterpreted. Edith had, in fact, mis-
interpreted it, and she was now wondering why her
father had gone out walking with Ferrieri, a thing he
had never done before.
Meanwhile Nepo arrived on the scene, greatly enraged
at having missed Marina, and calling out ^ It is impossible,
it is impossible,’ he passed by Edith in the hall without
bowing to her, while Rico stood at the door with his
A DECREE OF FATE
257
lantern, laughing to his heart's content, and old Momolo
muttered, — ‘ Eh, you young monkey, be more respectful
to his Excellency.'
On the stairs Nepo ran up against Fanny, -v^ho was
coming down to find Edith and tell her that dinner was
ready.
‘ Where is the Marchioness ? ' he asked without stop-
ping.
‘ Where is she ? ' replied Fanny, running down about
a dozen steps. ‘In her room,' she shouted from the
bottom of the stairs, when Nepo was already on the first
floor landing, where his mother impatiently awaited
him.
‘ Where is she ? ’ said he, $otto voce. ‘ What did she
say to you ? Does she know that you spoke to Count
Caesar ? '
All these questions the Countess met with an equal
number of her own.
‘ Where have you been all this time ? How did you
lose your way ? Did you find Momolo ? Go and tell
her that I have spoken to the old man. Quick ! They
have gone to tell her dinner is ready. She hasn't come
down yet. She must be in her room. Wait for her m
the loggia. Off with you ! '
What strange spirit of unrest had stolen in between the
stones of the castle walls ? Everybody was as nervous
and excited as Nepo and Countess Fosca. Signor Paolo
was storming about the kitchen in a great huff at having
to serve up a second dinner. Catte had got a scolding
from the Countess about some button or other, and
wandered hither and thither looking for something,
muttering to herself that she had never known her lady-
ship so cross-grained as she was that evening, A servant
ran up and down stairs from the kitchen to the dining-
R
MALOMBRA
258
room with plates, bottles, and glasses, desperately kicking
open the doors with his feet Ferrieri and Steinegge
had returned from their walk, both greatly agitated.
Count Caesar, Finotti and Vezza were discussing in the
drawing-room the announcement of the September Con-
cordat. Vezza ridiculed it with the cold sarcasms of a
disinterested looker-on, flavoured with a touch of clerical
bitterness. Finotti, a future member of the standing
commission, bitterly attacked it, and Count Caesar, with
the ideas of a Roman patncian of the old school, con-
demned it as a miserable confession of weakness, an
admission to the enemy that ‘ I am not only afraid of
your arms, but even of your shadow,' and he spoke hotly
against the King, the ministry, the parliament, and the
classes in power ; for by such measures they offered a
pretext for the renewed activity of a blockheaded and
vainglorious democracy. Count Csesar spoke more
bitterly than was his wont, fearing that Finotti and Vezza
might take him for an ally, and in the course of his
invectives he spared the political friends of neither the
one nor the other.
Marina, although they had sent to fetch her down to
dinner, was still sitting in her bedroom at the little round
table which she sometimes used as a writing-table, with
her elbows resting upon it, and her forehead hidden m
her hands. The lighted candle which stood in front of
her made her hair flash with threads of gold, and showed
up the fine blue veins at the side of the white forehead,
now half concealed by a small rosy finger ; and threw
across the shining pieces of furniture scattered about the
dark room faint reflected rays of light, like the eyes of
spirits watching over the pensive girl. On the blue velvet
pad of a writing-desk which was open in front of her lay
a sheet of dark grey paper with a large gold monogram,
A DECREE OF FATE
259
four letters luxuriously intertwined ; and, underneath, a
troop of flies' legs drawn up in order of battle, and
farther down, at the captain's post, a single name — Giuha,
The flies' legs spoke as follows —
‘Do you know that I am moving too? I move my
capital from Via Bigli to Borgonovo. Such was the
Emperor's will. Yesterday I paid a flying farewell visit
to my dear old road with its pretty gardens. What a
homble nuisance it is to move one's capital ! I left His
Majesty in the midst of the packers and upholsterers, and
came back here to send you a petit pdte chaud. It is a
little parcel of novels, very well written, and in the middle
is Signor Corrado Silla, author of ‘ A Dreamt domiciled
at Milan, Via San Vittore.
‘ I will tell you the chapter of accidents which led to
my finding him some other day, when I may be able to
tell you something else as well.
^ Adieu^ ma belle mi hois dormant To-morrow I have
to travel on business ; I am going to a dance at Bellagio.
Poor myosotis / Who remembers them now ? This time
I shall be in white, I shall wear coral, and some magni-
ficent sea-weeds from the Baltic which G is sendmg
me from Berlin, with a sonnet, I shall not wear the
sonnet. Giulia.'
There was a knock at the door, and Fanny was heard
saying,—
‘ Is your ladyship not coming ? Are you not well ? '
‘ I am coming,’ replied Marina. She jumped to her
feet, and with an impulse of haughty enjoyment raised
her arms above her head, raised her triump Wt face, and
looked up and in front of her. She hurried out of the
room, glided downstairs, and in the loggia came across
Nepo, much agitated
26 o
MALOMBRA
At last, my angel,* he said. ‘ Mamma has spoken to
your uncle. He is very pleased. And you — ’
He put one arm round her waist and waited for her
reply.
‘ Happy,* said she, and slipped away from him with
one of her silvery little laughs, which echoed through the
loggia, and through another door into the drawing-room.
Here everybody, Count Csesar excepted, rose to their feet,
as she passed lightly through the room with a bow and
smile.
' Atalanta, Atalanta,’ said Commendatore Vezza, look-
ing after her. Nepo came in headlong, looking very red,
his eyes starting out of his head. He stumbled in the
doorway, and fell into Vezza’s arms to save himself from
falling.
* Pardon me, my dear Commendatore/ he said, in an
impertinent, mocking tone ; * I was hoping to embrace
something nicer/
‘ Confound the cad,* said Vezza to himself. ‘ Really ? *
he remarked drily.
‘Isn’t it true, uncle?’ Nepo resumed, with an em-
phasis on the uncle. ‘You can imagine whom I was
hoping, with good right, to embrace. Gentlemen, you
are at liberty to draw from what I say, from everything
that I have said, the most just, the most — reasonable
inferences.’
He dragged out the words, hesitating over the adjec-
tive, then throwing it out with an oratorical flourish.
‘The most — natural inferences! I imagine that 1
can hardly find a more expressive phrase.’
And he passed on in triumph into the dining-room.
The Count could refrain no longer.
‘ Miserable popinjay,’ he muttered, between his teeth
in Piedmontese.
A DECREE OF FATE
26 z
‘Ugh V puffed the indignant Vezza.
‘ But,’ remarked Fmotti, indicating the dining-room by
jerking his thumb over his shoulder, and with a signifi-
cant look.
The Count said nothing.
‘But may we be allowed?’ resumed Finotti, holding
out his hand.
‘ Bah ! ’ exclaimed the Count.
Was this a denial, or merely a contemptuous rejection
of the proffered congratulations ? Nobody ventured to
inquire. Only the voices in the dining-room were to be
heard. There, Countess Fosca and Nepo were helping
Manna and Edith to some dinner. Edith felt she was
in the way, and only waited for the end of dinner to rejoin
her father. The latter kept walking backwards and for-
wards before the open door, casting curious glances at
his daughter.
‘ 'What a charming neighbourhood this is, cousin,’ said
Nepo, with a sudden inspiration ; ‘ the Horror, for ex-
ample. One can never forget it’ He looked at Marina
with his large, weak, prominent eyes, leaning his elbows
on the table. * It makes my heart beat fast to think of
it This night sleep will desert me. It is useless for
you to try to understand, mamma. You are not cap-
able of understanding the secret spell of that grotto.
Ah!’
He got up and waved his arms about like a madman in
an ecstasy ; then he kissed his mother, who cried out, —
^ You mad boy, leave me alone with your foolish jests.’
‘ Listen to what I am going to say, mamma,’ he went
on, while the Countess kept on saying to Marina, —
‘ He is beside himself with joy.’
Marina called out to Finotti, who was peeping in from
the next room.
262
MALOMBRA
* We don’t want him,’ said the Countess.
‘Finotti,’ repeated Marina.
The latter entered with the brisk walk of a young man.
‘ Listen to what I am going to say,’ cried the infatuated
Nepo.
‘Here, Finotti.’
Marma made him sit down between Edith and herself.
‘Now listen. I was so earned away by the beauties
of the Horror, that when my cousin and I amved at the
big black rock in the last cave, I, although a stranger to
the noble exercise of gymnastics, made a jump,’
‘ Oh ! ’ interposed Marina.
‘Isn’t it a fact that I leapt it?’ rejoined Nepo, looking
at her, with both hands raised.
‘ Quite a new way of leaping,’ replied Marina.
‘ Oh, do be so good, Marina, and don’t talk French to
me, my dear ; it’s become a perfect nuisance at Venice,
and destroys the pleasure of hfe. What did you say just
now?’
‘Another of your faux mammal Marina was
speaking in English, not French.’
‘Pardon me,’ interposed Finotti to soothe the poor
Countess, who had turned very red, and was pouring out a
glass of Barolo to comfort her. ‘Pardon me. Count.
V^^at does it matter, French or English ? When one has
the good fortune to be bom with aromatic honey in one’s
mouth, the honey of that sweet dialect made for the
Graces in the school of Venus, why spoil one’s palate
with French and English ? The Countess is right.’
‘Well, I didn’t think you had it in you. No, I really
didn’t think you had it in you. That is right. Stand up
for me, for a poor old woman hke me. Let our language
be as it may, at anyrate it is not full of bones and thorns
like other languages. Don’t they say that our forefathers,
A DECREE OF FATE
263
peace to fheir souls ! spoke Venetian even to the Pope ?
I am not of noble birth, but at anyrate I am an old
Venetian. My great-grandfather died in his fishing-boat
in the Adriatic, and my grandfather was in the service of
his Excellency, Anzolo Emo. I will talk Turkish, but
not French, and I don’t know any English. My poor
Alvise was of the same way of thinking. May I turn
Mahomedan if I have ever spoken two w-ords of anything
but Venetian. But now that is not the fashion. Now
the fashion is to be ashamed of being Venetian. Go to
B ^’s, or D ’s, or G ’s, and you will see how
things are done. No, no, no ; I am not talking about
foreigners, we have to bear with them. But among our-
selves? Sh, sh, sh, shu, shu, shu^ All sibilants and
gutturals. Bah ’ ’
Here Countess Fosca paused for breath and a sip of
the Barolo, but she had hardly raised the glass to her lips
when she put it down again, spluttering and gasping,
amidst the merriment of Nepo, who during her long speech
had managed to empty half the salt cellar into her wme.
‘ I called you in as a man of wit among these witty
people,’ said Manna in a low tone to Finotti.
‘Ah, Marcbesma,’ replied the latter, with a sigh;
‘ what is the use of wit ? I would rather be an imbecile,
and twenty-five years old.’
MeanwMe the Countess and Nepo were making such
an uproar that Count Csesar, Vezza and Steinegge came
into the dining-room. Ferrieri looked in at the door but
did not come in, in fact he took the opportunity of
slipping away unobserved, and did not appear again for
the rest of the evening.
On seeing her uncle enter, Marina rose from the table
and made her way to the drawing-room, leaning on
Nepo’s arm.
264 MALOMBRA
‘ You are a nice boy with your long jumps/ she said to
him, laughing.
Wliile he was making a solemn reply, ore rofmido, the
two passed in front of Count Caesar, and Manna looked
him straight in the face, with eyes which sparkled with
merriment. Countess Fosca, who was still angry at the
practical joke played upon her by her son, passed on with-
out looking at him, fanning herself as she walked.
The Count pulled out his watch. It was half-past nine,
an extiaordinarily late hour for him.
* These ladies and gentlemen must be in need of rest,'
he said, turning round to Steinegge and the commenda-
tori. Then, without waiting for a reply, he ordered
candles and went into the drawing-room, where he made
the same remark.
‘ I think,' said he to the Salvadors, * that after so many
fatigues and so much excitement you must be in need of
repose.’
‘ But, my dearest uncle,’ began Nepo, walking up to
him with short, hasty steps.
The Count did not let him proceed.
^ There is no doubt about it. Nonsense,’ he said,
* they are lighting the candles now.’
Nepo turned nght round and looked towards Marina,
shrugging his shoulders and raising his eyebrows.
Countess Fosca intervened.
‘Come, come, Caesar,’ she said in a low voice.
‘What a cunous man you are. This evening, just
when my children would so like to talk to you, to tell
you —
‘ Yes, yes, quite so,’ the Count hastened to reply ; ‘ I
quite understand, I quite understand. Here are your
candles.’
There was nothing more to be said.
A DECREE OF FATE 265
‘ And you/ said the Count, finding himself alone with
Marina ; ‘ are not you going to bed ? ’
^ Have you nothing to say to me ? Are you not glad
that I have followed your advice ? ^
‘ My advice ? Wliat do you mean — my advice ?’
* But certainly.’
They were standing ten paces apart, looking at one
another out of the corners of their eyes.
‘ Explain yourself/ said the Count, and hastily putting
down the candlestick which he had taken up, he turned
and faced her.
On a httle marble table against the wall, and close to
Marina, stood a crystal vase, filled with sprays of oleander
and cut flowers. She turned aside her head, saying,
‘ Don’t you remember ? ’ and buried her face in the sweet,
dying blossoms.
‘ I ? ’ rephed the Count. * I gave you advice ? ’
Marina raised her head from the flowers
‘ Yes, you,’ she said ; * a few hours before the Salvadors
arrived. I was in the library. You said that we two
were not made to live together. That your cousin was a
man of great position, and was thinking of getting married,
and that I had better give the matter my consideration.’
* Well, well ; I may have said that,’ replied the Count,
in embarrassment, running his fingers through his hair.
‘ But at that time I did not know my cousin in the least,
and you have not thought fit to consult me before accept-
ing his proposal.’
‘Well, I do know him. I consider him a perfect
gentleman, very clever, very refined, very vivacious, a
most charming man, as indeed you find him yourself.’
‘As I find him?’
‘Certainly. Didn’t you tell the Countess last night
that you were very glad about my engagement ?’
266
MALOMBRA
* Of course. Since you have not elected to take my
opinion, and have decided for yourself, I am very glad.
But I hasten to mention — ’
The Count was interrupted by the entrance of Catte.
‘ Gracious goodness ’ ' exclaimed the latter, greatly
surprised, and beginning to withdraw. ‘I beg your
pardon. I thought there was nobody here. I came to
fetch her Excellency’s fan ’
‘ There are no fans here,’ said the Count, brusquely,
giving her a glance which made her quail.
‘No, your lordship, no, your lordship,’ murmured
poor, innocent Catte, and her thin figure and long
nose disappeared through the doorway.
‘I hasten to mention,’ resumed the Count, after a
moment’s silence, * that I gave you no advice whatever.’
Marina smiled.
‘ But I thank you for your advice,’ she said. ‘ I am
perfectly happy.’
The Count would have liked to get angry, and could
not. It was true enough that Marina had made her
decision without first asking his advice ; but he had on
his conscience the words which he had spoken in the
library, and which she now brought to his remembrance.
He was not a man to juggle with his conscience to keep
it quiet. Those words now recurred to him for the first
time; he exaggerated their significance, and regretted
having uttered them.
‘ And you are happy ? ’
‘ To say I am not would come rather late now, but I
am perfectly happy, I said so just now.’
‘ Listen to me, Marina.’
It was long since the Count had spoken to his niece
with the grave, atFectionate manner with which he uttered
those four words. The child of his dear, dead sister had
A DECREE OF FATE
367
come to a decision which estranged her from him for
ever. He did not believe that she would be happy, and
now he feared to be himself in some measure responsible
for this marriage of ill augury. He feared that he had
allowed himself to be carried away, and that he had
used imprudent language in his resentment at the wrongs
infiicred on him by his niece, in his desire to see no
more of her, to hear her irritating voice no longer. This
feeling, firmly fixed as it had been in his mind up to the
present moment, now that it was on the point of being
gratified, began to die away.
As Marina did not stir, he himself advanced a few
paces towards her, and said, —
‘ I am thinking of what your dignity demands under
the present circumstances.’
‘My dignity?’
‘ Certainly, your dignity. You are about to encer a
very wealthy family. You must do so with your head
high.’ The Count’s right hand was half raised, as though
instinctively waiting for another hand to meet it. But
the expectation was not realised, and the hand slowly
dropped back to his side. Uncle and niece remained
for a moment motionless, face to face. Then he took
up a candle and went to wind up the clock on the
chimney-piece.
Meanwhile Marina took up the other candle and
silently left the room, without the Count, who was care-
fully turning the key, appearing to notice her. She did
not close the door behind her ; but she had hardly gone
out when the Count left off winding the clock, and turned
round, looking for a few moments at the half-opened
door. Then he finished winding up the clock, and in
his turn left the room, with bowed head, lost in thought,
on his way to bed.
270
MALOMBI^A
of that 1 and all our schemes ^ our little house 1 our
little excursions ? Besides, really and truly, I can for-
give Signor Ferrien, if you wish it, but I do not care for
him. You will speak to him in this way: The young
lady, my daughter, can only accept your explanations.
You will say that, won’t you, father ?’
^No; it is impossible. I can’t do it. I am old,
and if—’
Edith laid a hand on his lips.
‘Father,’ she said; ‘why make me unhappy? It is
not necessary.’
Steinegge did not know whether to be glad or sorry.
He gesticulated, made a thousand grimaces, and uttered
Teutonic exclamations, like champagne corks flying out,
one after the other. Before he left the room, he again
begged Edith to consider the matter — to reflect, to
postpone her decision. At last he went away, but a
few minutes later knocked at the door to say that there
was still time to send a different answer, and that she
might ask Count Csesar for his advice. But Edith cut
his argument short.
‘At least,’ said he, obeying his ceremonious instincts ;
‘ at least I may thank him in your name. I shall say to
Signor Ferrieri, my daughter is grateful to you.’
‘I don’t think that is necessary, father. Say that I
accept his excuses.’
‘ Oh, very well ! ’
And Steinegge went back to his room at the very
moment in which Countess Fosca, revellmg volup
tuously in the soft, fresh sheets of the house of Salvador
which enveloped her aged person, was dismissing
Catte for the night with the following remark : —
‘She doesn’t please me at all. She doesn’t please me
at all. She doesn’t please me at all.’
A DECREE OF FATE
271
The whispers in the passages died away. The shutters
with the lines of light suddenly grew dark one after the
other ; but the old castle did not even then sleep in
peace. In the west wing, the windows of the comer
room, looking towards the lake, were open and shining
steadily, like the yellow eyes of some huge owl.
Manna was awake She had gone out from the Count^s
presence tormented by a troublesome thought The
last words he had spoken had cast a deep shadow across
her heart. Her torment increased — the shadow spread
further and further, as those suggestive words acquired
in her mind their true significance, and echoed and
re-echoed through her memory, clear and irrevocable,
as when a drop of ink falls unnoticed upon a piece of
damp paper, and quickly spreads out and sinks in in every
direction. As she walked slowly across the loggia, with
the light in her hand, the pavement beneath her feet,
the roof above her head, the pillars, the arches, all
echoed with one sound, the outward utterance of that
troublesome thought that lurked deep down in her mind :
an obligation. An obligation to the man whom she hated,
and whom she ought to hate. No, she would never lay
herself under an obligation to him. This lying voice
should never creep in and disturb her in her love and
in her hate. Never ! She passed along the passage,
and her uncle’s words began to fill her heart with
horrible remorse; and facing her, upon the opposite
staircase, she saw his tall, thin figure ; the large, stern
features lit up with a benevolent smile.
Not till she was inside her own room, inside the walls
that guarded her secret thoughts, her secret life, her favour-
ite books, her letters and keepsakes, not till then did
she feel strong in her resolve, not till then did the dull
anger smouldering in her heart find shape and method.
MALOMBRA
272
A handful of gold in her face j that is what the Count’s
words meant; that was the obhgation to be conferred.
Gratitude for that ? She felt as though she were rising
haughtily from the ground, scattering from her the
polluting gold, scattering it over Nepo Salvador. She
despised them both, the one and the other, the gold
more than the man. Never had she felt as she did now
how Its touch defiles. She had lived long in splendour
without observing that; without caring to reflect that
the light around her was the light from a rapid stream of
gold, poured out from thousands of soiled and vulgar
hands, carried away by thousands of others ; and not the
hght of her own nobility, of her own beauty, of her own
elegant mind. True, there had been a momentary
eclipse after her father’s death, but more in the appear-
ance of the persons than of the things surrounding her.
She knew that in this world money is a god ; it is a
luxury to despise a god. It was a luxury to her to
annoy, with the cold reserve of a great lady, the wealthy
bourgeoisie^ whose women take the aristocratic polish
well, the men badly. She imagined that in the eyes
and on the brows of those people she could see the
glitter of gold, that their voices had a metallic sound ;
that the rustling silk of each merchant’s wife called out
the figures of her bank account.
To flood her with a stream of gold was not to benefit
her; other people might be benefited in that way. It
was, on the contrary, to strike her, for Count Caesar’s
money must be poisoned by hatred. Worse still ; did he
intend in that way to settle up the account of arrogance and
slights, direct and indire^ct ? Of course, that was what he in-
tended, How on earth had she not thought of that at first ?
She rang the bell for Fanny. Fanny, that evening,
kept smiling softly to herself, opening her mouth every
A DECREE OF FA TE
273
and then as though she wished to speak, but
Araiting for an invitation before doing so.
hope,’ said she, at last, beginning to do her
ess's hair, ‘that if your ladyship had to go away
here you would not leave me behind ? ’
e quick,’ replied Marina.
am doing it as quick as I can. How I do like
iear Countess ! What a nice lady she is ! ’
d she went on combing.
it true that there are no carriages^.at Venice >
Dw, it is a better place than this, say L^Xs it
rina did not answer.
le Countess was so happy this evening. Her
ip almost kissed me. Poor, dear lady, she really
me. She told me I am a perfect treasure. It
. ' ily my place to repeat it, but she really said so.
i Madame Catte, good Madame Catte. There
t many maids like me in her part of the world,
, " ’'S. She is a good servant, though. You should
w well she sews. Almost as well as I do. She
. me just now — ^
1 _ quick.’
» m as quick as I can. She said just now that
. r .int nearly bit her head off because — ^
jave you finished?’
' \ my lady.’
' -“I, then, you can go to bed.’
‘ "f don’t you want me to undress you ? ’
‘No, I don’t want anything. Go to bed.’
Fanny hesitated for a moment.
‘ Are you angry with me ? ’
‘Yes,’ said Marina, to get rid of her. ‘Yes, I am
angry. Go to bed.’
s
274
And she stood up, shaking her long, auburn hair
in a shower over her shoulders on to her white dressing-
jacket.
‘ Why is your ladyship angry ? ’ said Fanny.
* About nothing, about nothing ; go to bed/
‘ May I say a word,* resumed Fanny, turning very red.
‘*If some of the big liars in this house have been telling
tales to your ladyship, do not believe them, for I have
known many a young and handsome gentleman, and
not one of them has ever even laid a hand on me/
‘That IS quite enough,* interrupted Manna. ‘ I don't
know what you are trying to say, and I don't want to
know. I am not angry. I am sleepy. Go to bed.*
Fanny went away,
‘Oh, you nice man,* murmured Marina to herself,
when she was alone. ‘This is excellent*
She re-read Signora de Bella*s letter.
It did not strike her in the same way as at first
Guilia had discovered Corrado Silla, had written to
him at once, and the letter had reached him shortly
after she had promised to marry Nepo. And what
followed? Were the circumstances so extraordinary as
to justify her in seemg in them what she thought she
saw at first — a decree of fate? She knew now that Silla
was at Milan, and she knew his address.
Wonderful! She would have learnt the same facts
a few days later from Edith. But was there even a
shadow of an indication that Silla would return, sooner
or later, to the castle? There was none. Very well,
then, what result could be hoped for from sitting with
folded hands waiting on a doubtful destiny?
Her thoughts rested upon this question and then
suddenly became blank, leaving her with the impression
of a great void, and all her senses on the stretch in
-4 DECREE OF FATE
275
the instinctive expectation of some sign, of some voice
of nature in reply. She heard the dull sound of a door
being closed in the distance j then nothing more Not
a leaf was stirring to break the deep silence of the
night. The dark walls, the furniture scattered about
in the half-gloom of the chamber, encased in a heavy
immobility, spoke to her no more. The faint reflections
from the light, which shone out of the deep darkness
of the shining wood hke the eyes of watching spirits,
now looked at her without any expression whatsoever.
Suddenly her thoughts awoke to activity, and at once
her heart sank within her.
She saw herself stepping into a big travelling coach
with Nepo Salvador, heard the crack of the whip which
dispersed all her foolish illusions, felt the carnage jerk
forward and Nepo's greedy arms close about her. At
that point her spirit rose again, contemptuous and
calm ; it was not possible ; into Nepo’s arm she would
never fall, wife or no wife. But this thought brought
another one in its train.
She had put away the letter in the escritoire and had just
laid down her dressing-jacket on the low arm-chair in
front of the looking-glass. She sat down there and
instinctively glanced at herself in the glass, which was
lighted up by two candle^ one on each side, in gilt
sockets. She looked at herself in that pure transparency
beneath the candle-light, which flooded her hair, her
shoulders, her bosom, and which appeared to reveal a
statue of voluptuous beauty immersed in deep, clear
water. Beneath her gleaming hair the face, veiled in
light shadow, was pressed forwards; the chin supported
by a dehcate white hand, whiter than the rounded arm
which cast a faint outline on the golden whiteness of her
bosom, on the fine network of lace that edged the bare
276
MALOMBRA
fiesh. Her shoulders bore no resemblance to the ample
shoulders of the lady by Palma. Not that they were
poor; indeed, in their graceful shape, m their gently
sloping contour, there was an expression of pride and
intelligence such as flashed from the large blue eyes
and vi\acious face. And never, never had lover’s hps
met hers ’ Marina, trembling all over, began to imagine
that embrace. She pictured to herself that one whose
face she had last seen in the light of the lightning
flashes had come, from a long way off, through the dark,
warm night, intoxicated with hope, led on by the
amorous voices of the forest j that he was drawing
nearer, drawing ever nearer, without a pause; that he
passed, siieiit as a ghost, through the yielding gates of
the castle, that he ascended the stairs, groping his way in
the darkness, that he pushed open the door. . .
She rose to her feet, suffocated by a stifling sensation,
and took a deep breath, searching for relief ; but the
soft, perfumed air was like fire. Ah, she loved him, she
loved him, she called to him, she held him in her arms !
Furiously she blew out the candles on the looking-glass,
fell sideways on to the chair, and, taking hold of the
back, placed her face against it, and bit it. She lay
there for over a quarter of an hour, motionless, but for
her shoulders, which heaved quickly, violently. At
length she sat upright again, lost m gloomy meditation.
Why had she not detained Silla when he uttered the
dreaded name? Why, at the very outset, had she lost
motion, and sense and will ? Why had not she flung her-
self after him that same night, at hazard, perhaps, yet
with the instinct of passion, after the man whom she
had loved — how could she doubt it ? at first sight ; in
spite of herself, in rag^and disdain, after the man who
had pressed her in his arms, whispermg her name —
A DECREE OF FATE
277
Cecilia? Did not this fulfil the prophecy of the old
manuscript, that she would be loved under that name?
Why not leave the castle and go in search of him at
once? ^Vhy this comedy with Nepo Salvador? There
was a good reason, and Marina could not forget it for
long at a time.
Those concluding words of the manusciipt: ‘leave
things in God’s hands. Be they sons, be they nephews,
be they cousins, the mndetia will be good for all. Here
you must wait for it, here.’ And did not all the circum-
stances give a confused, distant indication of how she
could attain to both revenge and love?
Her confidence returned. She rose, took up the
candlestick and went to the threshold of the next room
and peered in, in the direction of the chest which held
the secret, holding the light in her left hand above her
head Yes, it was there, hardly visible in the gloom, a
black chest inlaid with white, like a coffin carved with
hieroglyphics. Marina looked at it, a golden light fall-
ing on her hair and bare shoulders from the vivid tremul-
ous splendour which shone around her upon a small
portion of walls and floor; at her feet lay the round,
quivering shadow of the candlestick. One of her
mysterious reminiscences came upon her, and made her
blood run chill. She felt that she had stood upon that
threshold once before, years and years ago, at night,
half-dressed, with her hair down; that she had seen at
her feet the quivering shadow of the candlestick, the
light playing around her over a small portion of walls
and floor, and there, in front of her, the black chest, the
mysterious hieroglyphics.
PART III
A DREAM OF SPRINGTIME
279
CHAPTER I
IN APRIL
* The dog is faithful/
^Der Hund ireu isV
‘ Oh, not Trei^ ist. My dear Silla, that is a great
mistake. If I say dass der Napoleon kein treuer Hu7id
zst^ that is good sense and good grammar. The Rhine is
what you want, der Ke?d! Have you a light ? ^
‘ Yes, but let us leave politics alone 1 *
‘ Oh,’ replied Steinegge, stretching out neck and chin
till his cigar met the lighted match which SiUa was hold-
ing out to him, ^ Oh, oh 1 ’ and he took four or five
hasty puffs, ‘ I was not speaking for you Italians. Der
Himd ist treul
Siila took up a pen and wrote accordingly. They were
seated opposite to one another at a solid square oak table,
without a cloth, and unvarnished. Steinegge had in front
of him an old, tom, shabby grammar, splashed with ink
and covered with grotesque drawings. Silla had pen and
writing-paper.
‘ What do you think of that grammar ? ’ said the latter
as he wrote.
Steinegge turned over the book with a mischievous
smile,
‘Might I inquire,’ he said, ‘ what it cost?’
281
2S2
MALOMBRA
‘ Forty-five centesimi/
‘ Ah, forty-five centisimi is five cigars. That’s a good
deal. They would last me ten days. The ox is ill.’
' Der OcJis ist kra7ik. Ten days ? ’
‘ Quite right. Go on. Ten days. I don’t smoke, I
only take a whiff cccasionally to clear my head.’
Steinegge laughed cheerfully.
‘ jMy daughter believes,’ he added, sotto wee, * that I
smoke two cigars a day. Why, it would be madness. I
am saving money. In five months twenty francs > that’s
something. Eh? Not bad. Have you written that?
The ass — the ass — the ass. Where is that ass ? Ah I
the ass is thin.’
‘ Der Esel ist mager,
‘Write that down. That is the last sentence; a
thought of great depth. Well, I wish to make a little
present’ And Steinegge jerked his thumb towards the
door behind him, ‘ You can advise me, being a fashion-
able young man.’
Silla smiled. All his claim to fashion centred in a
handsomely-mounted pearl scarf-pin, a souvenir of his
mother. He always wore dark gloves, dark ties, dark
clothes. But he had a good figure, which set off even
common clothes. Still, there was a shabbiness about the
elbows, and a faded discoloured look about the collar
not in keeping with a fashionable toilette.
‘ Look,’ he said, pushing across the paper on which he
had been writing.
‘You must excuse me, for I’m as blind as Count
Rechberg,’ replied Stemegge, taking his spectacles out of
their case. He put out his cigar and perched his glasses
on the end of his nose. He read with his eyebrows
raised and his mouth open, and appeared to be looking
at himself in the looking-glass.
W APRIL
2S3
Silla took up the grammar, which he had found in
a second-hand book stall near the cathedral. It had
evidently belonged to some merry scholar of the time of
the Austrian occupation, for he had scrawled it all over
with names, dates, and caricatures, and had written
acioss the list of conjugations, —
‘Rise against the hideous, wearisome Germans,
Rise, men of Lombardy ! *
After a few minutes’ silence the door behmd Steinegge
opened very gently. Silla rose to his feet. At the noise
of his chair moving the door again closed.
^Very good, old fellow,’ said Steinegge, laying down
the writing-book. ‘ You write the German letters much
better than I do. It is extraordinary how the pickaxe
and spade have ruined my hand. You understand, in
Switzerland.’
Steinegge replaced his spectacles in their case, adjusted
his tie, and got up
‘ My dear professor,’ said Silla, ‘ we are now at the
twelfth lesson,’
‘Well?’
Silla took out a bundle of notes from his purse.
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Steinegge, turning on his heel, and
walking hurriedly about the room, looking at the door and
gesticulating with his arms.
‘ Das nehme ich nicht^ das nehrm ich nicht I won’t take
it, I won’t take it.’
‘ What do you mean ? Don’t you remember our agree
ment ? ’
‘ But, my dear fellow, it would be a shame for me to
take your money. I want to go and call my daughter — ’
‘ One moment I If you refuse this, I leave the house,
and we shall never meet again.’
2S4
MALOMBRA
‘ Well, well, give me the confounded money then. You
decline to do a favour to your poor old friend.’
‘ No, I cannot do it, I am proud.’
‘ Oh, you have a good heart, so have I. I know that
you are fond of me, I will take the money. But why
are you learning German ? ’
‘ In order to understand you when you speak Italian.’
Steinegge looked rather mortified.
‘No, no, I was joking,’ added Silla, taking him affec-
tionately by the arm. ‘It is in order to understand
Goethe, and one of our — ^writers, an Italian ^ but
chiefly for Goethe. I thought I had told you ? ’
‘ I know, but I was afraid there was some other reason ;
you know that my daughter earns a lot of money by
giving lessons. The Count keeps on sending me German
to translate into French, and what is more, every month
he sends me a hundred francs. So you see I am qmte
rich.’
‘ Well, and how about me ? ’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Steinegge, with a little bow.
*Of course, of course ; so are you,’
Still the Steinegge establishment was not dazzlingly
well-to-do. The room they were now in was a low comer
room under the roof. It had two balconies with iron
railings, one on the south side ; one on the east, the walls
were covered with a blue paper with a brown border, the
ceiling had a fresco of sky and clouds. A varnished iron
bedstead, with shining brass nobs and a chintz coverlet
of pearl-colour picked out with red roses, stood up against
the west wall, beneath a little picture containing a lock
of fair hair, against a white background enclosed in an
ebony frame. Between the door of this room and the
one leading to Edith’s bedroom a grey stone chimney-
piece gracefully supported two small double-wicked
m APRIL
285
petroleum lamps, and, between them, a modest tumbler
containmg a simple bunch of large violets. Opposite the
chimney-piece, on a thick-set, flat stand of blackish marble,
bloomed a few calicanthus^ like the delicate fantasies
of a convalescent poet. Between the east balcony and
Edith’s room was a small whatnot with three shelves full
of books, and surmounted by a tiny bust of Frederick
Schiller. In the middle of the room, the white oak table
seemed to be calling out for its black-and-blue cloth, the
rich cloak with which it concealed the bareness of its
legs.
Through both windows the vivifying light of a bnght
spnng day was flooding the room, sending a bluish re-
flection from the sky over the sheets of paper scattered
along the table, and making the ceiling bright with the
reflected heat of the houses opposite, aglow m the setting
sun. The two balconies commanded a fine sw^eep of sky,
and a wild sea of roofs scattered along narrow gulleys,
for so the main streets appeared ; patches of old and new,
of light and shade, interspersed with clumps of greenish
trees and lines of white walls, rough stacks of chimneys,
and shining skylights. Right below the balcony could
be seen a dark mass of buildings, the Naviglio, and a
long stretch of road in firont of it dotted with human
gnats, slowly dragging their long shadows behind them.
Even had one not seen all this, the great height at which
the room stood would have been apparent from the bnght
light and fresh air, and the deep, confused murmur of
sounds which rose towards it in one single, continuous
stream.
‘Would you be so kind,’ said Steinegge, collecting the
writing materials and placmg them on the whatnot, as to
help me to lay the cloth. ‘ My daughter is very fond of
this one.’
286
They spread out the black-and-blue cloth over the
table, so that it no longer cried out for a covering.
The little room assumed an air of peace and quiet,
which was reflected on our old friend's face.
‘Thanks,’ said he, ‘many thanks. You don’t know
how much pleasure it gives me to do these little things.
You don’t know what I feel when I touch these chairs.
For seventeen years I had not a chair of my own. Do you
understand ? Seventeen years. This wood is so pleasant
to the touch I am thankful to God, my dear fnend.
You are young and do not think about Him. Listen to
me.’ Stemegge caught hold of Silla by the arm and drew
him nearer. His eyes flashed beneath the shaggy eye-
brows ; a ruddy hue suffused his face.
* I thank Him,’ he repeated in a choking voice, and
then he stood silently pointing his right forefinger, first
towards the lock of fair hair in the frame, then towards
Edith’s room. Finally he raised it towards heaven.
* And in the past,’ he continued, ‘ I believed that God
was up ther^ above the clouds, like some earthly king of
Prussia.’
Here Steinegge violently shook his hand, which was
still clenched, with the forefinger pointing.
‘ No, no, believe me,’ he added.
‘ I always have believed, my dear Steinegge,’ rephed
Silla, ‘ It would have gone hardly with me if I had not
done so.’
‘ If you only knew how happy I am,’ said Steinegge.
^Sometimes I feel afraid, because I am too happy for my
deserts. But then I console myself with the thought
that all the merit is my daughter’s. Ah 1 my daughter,
my dear fellow ! ’
Steinegge jomed both hands together,
‘ I cannot talk about her,’ he went on; ‘it overcomes me.’
IN APRIL 287
* I can quite believe it,’ said SiUa, pressing his hand
warmly. ‘ I know her.’
‘ No, no, you know nothing. You ought to hear her
talk of the things which the priests talk about. Their
preaching sounds like a wheezy barrel-organ, and Edith’s
words like the music one hears in dreams when one is
young. We go to church together sometimes, but we
never mention the priests. She understands art, too.
I am a mere baby just beginning ; I knew nothing about
it. We went yesterday to — ^what is the place called?
— to Brera. Imagine yourself with some great German
work in your hand. You would understand about a
dozen words on each page. It would rouse you, it would
make your heart beat quicker to see the dozen lights
gleaming through the darkness, and you would begin to
wonder what Goethe meant to say on that page. This
is how it affected me when I hstened to my daughter,
and began to understand a little about pictures. As to
literature, my dear fellow — Klopstock ! Novalis ! Schiller !
But she will never talk to you about them. What a girl
she is.’
Here the eyes of Captain Steinegge filled with tears ;
his voice sank to a low, emphatic tone.
‘ A secant comes in for a few hours each day. Every-
thing else Edith does herself, as simply and cheerfiilly as
one goes for a walk. I am a self-indulgent old man and
take my coffee in bed. I am a gourmand, but not for the
coffee, but for the sake of seeing my daughter come into
the room, and to hear her say, Good morning, father,”
in German, Each morning it is as though I had found her
again after twelve years. She brings me my coffee, brushes
my clothes, and sometimes mends them. We talk about
Germany, of the distant past, and of the future. Edith
gives three lessons nearly every day* There are two
MAL03IBRA
2SS
ladies — Signora Pedulli Ripa and Signora Serpi — two
ladies, ahl’ (and Steinegge opened his eyes >\ide and
waved his arms exatedly) ^ who are quite in love with
her, and so are their daughters ; they have often offered
to send her home in their carriage, but she has always
declined, because she knows that I would not get in
with her.’
‘ You get in ? What has it to do with } ou ? *
‘ I wait for her in the street.’
^ And why wouldn’t you get into the carriage ? ’
‘ That would hardly do under the circumstances, and
so my daughter always walks with me, wet or fine, I
feel proud and happy then as I think that, once out-
side those ladies’ doors, my daughter is no longer the
governess. They have asked her to dinner, and
wanted to take her to the theatre. But she never
went She preferred to stay at home and keep me
company.’
Even his hair seemed to glisten as he said this, and
his nose wrinkled with pleasure.
* How do you think we spend our evenings ? Edith
does some work and I make the French pricis of Gneist
for the Count. Then Edith reads some Schiller and
Uhland to me, or modem poetry, which is new to me,
such as Freiligrath, Geibel, and —
* Heine?’
^No, my daughter does not read Heinrich Heine. I
knew the man at Paris. He was not a good German,
If you will look in some evening, I’ll translate some of
our poetry to you and give you a cup of tea., Edith
makes tea for me every evening.’
* You take tea? ’ said Stiila, smiling.
Steinegge smiled uncomfortably.
* Ah, you are a spiteful fellow ! I understand, I under-
IN APRIL 2S9
Stand. It is as though dsr Konig m Thule were to sit
down and drink temperance drinks/
* Eh ? Well, I take two glasses of wine with my dinner
now, and no more/
‘ Is this by your daughter’s wish ? ’
‘ No, by mine. My daughter begged me to take wine
in the evening, and does so still, but once I saw in her
eyes what her real wish was, and I take tea, my dear
friend.’
‘ I envy you,’ said Silla, taking up his hat to go.
Steinegge detained him.
‘ Wait, come for a walk with us/
Silla hesitated.
‘ Yes, come along,’ said Steinegge, and went to knock
at Edith’s door, asking her to come out for a moment.
Edith soon appeared, and shook hands with Silla.
‘ Good-day,’ she said. ‘What a very long lesson.’
She looked very well in her simple black dress, with a
short, well-fitting skirt, and a bunch of violets at the
waist. She wore her brooch of onyx mounted in gold,
and a little white cape which threw a clear transparent
light over her face and neck. Her long hair was arranged
simply. Her delicate face had a pretty colour, and her
mouth and eyes a more resolute expression than usual.
It was strange how those eyes expressed her knowledge
of life and its realities, a knowledge tempered by benevol-
ence. Strange how, when they were lighted up with
mirth and laughter, as they often were, a shade of sad-
ness passed across them \ as though another spirit dwelt
with hers, and infused its melancholy into her mirth.
Sdla and she talked together with a certain fnendly
familiarity, in which a close observer would, however,
have noticed much reserve; as when two people on
terms of close intimacy, and at the same time divided
T
290
MALOMBRA
by mutual respect, take the greatest pains not to touch
each other the closer they walk together. Silla’s bearing
betrayed the greater caution and self-control, almost to
excess ; Edith's manner was more natural and equable,
and her reserve was not forced, but innate. They had
known one another for six months, and had often met ;
not in the cold atmosphere of a reception, but in the
close intimacy of a domestic circle ; their bond of union
was a person dear to both, although in varying degrees.
Since the first day they met, Edith had often spoken to
Silla about the castle and its inmates. Knowing the
secret story of their relations, she had touched as lightly
as possible on the subject of Marina. Silla noticed this,
and Edith could hardly doubt that he guessed the cause.
This suggestive silence served as a kind of link between
them, bemg a sEent understanding unknown to others,
formed between two hearts out of mutual regard. Simi-
lar secrets under similar circumstances lead at first to a
certain pleasant sympathy \ then the growing famiharity
renders the silence irksome, and the desire to break
through it shows itself in indirect allusions to the for-
bidden subject. As when two drops of water are close
together on a wire, the touch of a single hair wEl cause
them to flow together into one, so the sound of a
single word breaks through the last restriction on the
friends' true feelings, and the intimacy becomes complete.
Edith and Silla did not seem to have approached this
stage.
She had gone off readily enough to put on hat and
coat at her father's suggestion. Steinegge, too, with
much ceremony, asked permission to go and make his
toflette.
Meanwhile Silla stood on the balcony above the
Naviglio.
IN APRIL
291
The soft light of April shone that evening in the clear
sky, and the breeze whispered to the ancient city the
glad tidings that spring had come, and each window and
casement breathed in the soft fresh air. The fresh
puffs of wind spread gently over the squares, danced
up and down the streets, whistled at the street comers.
High up in the air they passed in silent waves, causing
the linen, hung out to dry, to belly out and flutter inside
the skylights j and touching on the window-sills the
flowers which revelled in the soft spring air, and inno-
cently laughed towards Heaven from old houses of ill-
fame. Silla had the sun at his back. The house in
which he stood, and the others on the right and on the
left, the latter a huge square block, threw shadows across
the gardens at their feet, across the Naviglio, across the
street, and on part of the houses facing them. Beneath
the balcony on the left was a terrace, on the first floor,
shaded by two large magnolias, laid out with beds of
red and white flowers, and protected by a low parapet of
red granite. Five or six men in tail coats and white
ties, but without gloves, were walking up and down there
smoking. A lady, a dazzling apparition in blue velvet
with a white camelia in her hair, appeared leaning on
the arm of a short, stout gentleman, also in a tail coat
and white tie. The smokers crowded about her with re-
spectful eagerness.
From Silla’s balcony the conversation could not be
followed, but the voices could be heard, and he readily
distinguished that of the little fat man, Commendatore
Vezza. Silla knew the lady, a well-preserved beauty of
five-and-forty, separated for some years from a gambling
husband, and noted for her literary affectations, the
excellence of her cuisine, and the dubious nature of her
love affairs. An odour of refined sensuousness seemed
2^2
MALOMBRA
to rise from that terrace into the pure evening air, a
perfume breathing a thousand exquisite delights, like
the mingled fumes of dainty dishes which rise into the
street from the subterranean kitchens of some great
hotel. But high up in the evening breeze this breath
of mundane life was dissipated. There, one breathed in
a pleasant melancholy, like the soft, vague imaginings of
youthful purity, and the confused conflict of young
desire. Silla lost thought of the present ; his thoughts
were with memories of distant lands, vague amorous
longings of early youth, snatches from popular poetiy.
One verse in particular haunted him —
‘Sweet parted lips, that laugh hke opening roses.*
‘Signor Silla,’ said Edith, smiling, ‘are you going to
stop out there?’
Silla started, turned round hastily, and began to
apologise for his absence of mind.
Edith and Steinegge had been waiting for him. The
former had on a dark grey coat, and a black hat and
veil.
‘ It seems a pity,’ said Silk, ‘ to have to go down.’
‘ You would like to take a walk among the clouds ? ’
He looked up, slightly piqued, but noticed the hidden
sadness of her smile, and said nothing.
‘ Forgive me,’ she said, ‘I have no poetic feeling.’
Possibly she had not, yet there \^as so much poetr)' in
her voice, so much m the graceful figure lighted up* by
the setting sun.
‘Well, shall we be going?’ said Steinegge.
‘ It is not possible,’ Silla replied at length to Edith as
they left the room.
He had been thinking it out Edith did not speak,
nor could one see how she received Silk’s tardy response,
IN APRIL
m
for she was already on the staircase, and it was getting
dark.
It was pleasant to escape from that cold, dark stair-
case and get out into the street, still bright with the
fading sunlight, and shining, in its wind-swept cleanli-
ness, like Steinegge’s silk hat. The latter was walking
beside his daughter, on her left, straight as a capital Y
turned upside down.
‘ Oh,’ said he, suddenly coming to a standstill, ‘ by-the-
bye, Don Innocence wrote to me to-day.’
He began to feel in his pockets for the letter, but,
at a rapid glance from Edith, said that he had left it at
home, and began speaking of it in high terms.
‘ Very affectionate,’ said Edith, ‘ and very — ’
She could not find the word.
‘ Not witty — ^no. There is another word which, some-
how, I fancy would be more appropnate.’
‘ Vivacious ? ’ suggested Silla.
‘Yes, vivacious.’
Edith remembered a good deal of the letter, and
repeated it to Silla.
It was not the first time that Don Innocenzo had
written to his old German fnend. He did so in ac-
cordance with a wish secretly expressed to him by Edith
before leaving the castle. His kindly, sensible letters
were written in choice Italian, his style being somewhat
formal, the style of an educated man who writes little.
He wrote about the troubles of his parishioners — of great
sufferings supported with Christian humility. He spoke
with respect of the old-fashioned virtues of his villagers.
He spoke of faith in religion like a man who, in his
youth, has fought hard not to lose it, and, having gained
the victory, regards with great indulgence those who have
fought and lost. He mentioned that the snow, the frost
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MALOMBRA
and the heavy rams had damaged the roof of his church ;
and that, on the preceding Sunday, a young organist
passing through the village had played for them, in
masterly style, some German music, he believed by
Bach. The people did not appreciate it, but he him-
self was still enraptured by it. He went on to say that
the building of the new paper-mill was getting on rapidly,
and that many pre-historic pots and pipkins discovered
in the foundations now adorned his pnvate museum.
He announced that the sunny sides of the mountains
and the northern banks of the lake were in full spring
foliage, and he described their aspect with studied
elegance of style. The good priest concluded with a
pressing invitation to the Steinegges to pass a few days
at his house as soon as possible.
Edith repeated the letter almost word for word, only
omitting one portion. It was curious to hear about the
lakes and mountains and the simple country life on the
road to Porta Venezia, between the two streams of people
going to the fortifications, amid the dull rattle of the
carriage wheels and the impatient pawing of the high-
spirited steeds, in front of walls — white, red and yellow
with bills and placards of every kind. The sun had
disappeared. From the west, white clouds with golden
edges threw a warm reflected light on the highest of the
houses, and the evening breeze was steeped in the per-
fume of spring, of cigar smoke and scented handkerchiefs.
The ladies who were driving along by the fortifications,
seemed to be making for the brightness in the west,
abandoning themselves silently, in unwonted lassitude,
to the caresses of the soft evening air. The two long,
black streams of people, picked out with the bright
colours worn by the ladies, passed along on the right and
left side of the road, with a deep, confused sound of
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footsteps and voices, like two long strips of heavy drapery
dragged along the pavement, away from the deep shadow
of the city. All the windows were open. It seemed to
Silla as though all hearts were open too, as though that
stream of human beings carried with it a rich store of
gay thoughts, of laughing fantasies, which reflected the
eternal youth and freshness of the spring. Even in the
colour of the stones, still warm with sunlight, he saw the
hand of life-giving Apnl, which, if it could not animate
them, at least gave them the desire, the distant hope of
life. It did not appeal to him to hear of the lake and of
the mountains, the voices of the past spoke not to
him.
‘ Does not the curate mention anything else? ' he said
to Edith.
^ Nothing else,’ Steinegge replied for her.
‘ What ? Not a word about the castle ? ’
* Well, he does just mention it.’
‘Doesn’t he mention Donna Marina’s marriage?’
Steinegge was unable to reply, for just then a tilbury
came thundering past them, and Silla turned to look
at the horse, a fast-trotting bay.
‘ A fine horse,’ remarked the ex-captain of cavalry, ‘ a
fine horse, but too light A Hungarian horse. I know
them. It would be better as a saddle horse.’
‘Well,’ Silla repeated, ‘doesn’t he mention the
wedding? ’
Steinegge looked at him, half doubtful whether he
was really so mdiflerent
‘ I think he does say something about it.’
‘Your father is acting diplomatically, Miss Edith.’
‘ I don’t think so,’ she replied. ‘You would make too
poor a hand at it, father, wouldn’t you? But what are
we to say of you. Signor Silla?’
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MALOMBRA
‘ I am inquisitive, you mean. You are right. But it
is a very innocent curiosity, believe me.’
He laid some stress on these words, as though they
meant more than met the ear. Stemegge now sallied
forth from his trenches ; he proceeded, however, with a
certain caution.
‘ Well, it seems,’ he said, ‘ that affairs are advancing
pretty fast, and that the wedding will not be long de-
layed.’
‘ I can quite believe that. They’ve been engaged for
six months already.’
‘Yes, but there are many long preliminaries to be
gone through. Now they are being rapidly completed,
very rapidly.’
‘ I am very glad to hear it,’ said Silla, quietly. Steinegge
threw aside all reserve,
‘The wedding,’ he resumed, ‘is to take place, it would
seem, this evening, the twenty-ninth of April. There are
to be great rejoicings, with music and fireworks. The
contract of marriage is already signed. They say that
the Count wished to settle on Donna Manna a dowry
of three hundred and twenty thousand francs, but that
she preferred a deed of gift for that amount, to be
signed by the Count at the time of the marriage and
given to her husband. The Count has not been well for
some days, but is now better. Count Nepo has been at
the castle for a week, at the beginning of the month.
The servants say he is very stingy, but Don Innocenzo
says that he gave a hundred francs to the poor.’
Steinegge joked about this munificent donation which
had dazzled the poor old priest, but Silla took a different
view, and maintained that good actions are not measured
by rule of thumb, and that you do not look a gift horse
in the mouth. Silla talked vivaciously and well, occa-
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sionaliy stopping in order to greet an acquaintance or to
make some amusing remark to Edith about the people
and things they passed. All his friends looked curiously
at Edith She made brief replies, without looking up at
him, and only when she could do no less. She had
become very grave, and she passed her arm through her
father’s
Siila gradually ceased to talk either. He suspected
that Edith had attached a certain significance to his
assumption of indifference about Marina’s marriage, and
that she intended to be on her guard. His heart beat
loudly j a pleasant mist seemed to pass over his reflec-
tions. Somebody in the crowd greeted him ; he did not
reply ; he walked amidst the throng of people as though
he neither saw nor heard.
Soon after, they reached the fortifications. The air up
there was fresher, and steeped in the fresh scent of the
fields, but a great crowd of people still passed along the
avenue on the left ; and, above their heads, one could
see, driving slowly along the central avenue, coachmen
of every kmd — pompous coachmen, humble coachmen,
coachmen with footmen, and coachmen without, satisfied
coachmen, resigned coachmen, dark, yellow, red, blue
and green coachmen. Edith wished to turn back. She
thought the air was damp, and was afraid her father
would catch cold. Steinegge laughed at her. When
had she ever seen him care about the weather? And she
was so fond of the Corso ! Edith did not insist
At the top of the avenue Steinegge began weaving his
arms about, and firing off a volley of questions in Ger-
man to a gentleman who had taken up a position, from
which he was watching the procession of carnages. This
was Mr C , with whom Steinegge some time before
had endeavoured to found a ^correspondence Ufhographtgue*
298 MALOMBRA
He turned round and came forward, holding out his
hand.
‘ Excuse me,* said Steinegge to Edith and Silla, * this
is C , I must go and speak to him. Go on ; I will follow
at once *
Before Edith could say anything, her father had
skipped away through the crowd, and the continuous
stream of passers-by prevented her following him up.
After going a httle way she turned round, but could not
see her father. It was awkward for her to stand there
alone, looking about her, and she felt embarrassed,
Silla humbly suggested that she should go on, as her
father had said, otherwise he would look for her further
on, and not find her. They walked along the crowded
avenue amid the throng of idlers, looking at the carnages
which were going at walking pace, and now and then
stopping. They walked apart without speaking, looking
attentively at every carriage, whether a smart landau or a
shabby fly. Every now and then Edith looked back.
The wide sweep of country beyond the bastions could
be seen in the half light, stretching away against the pale
blue horizon which seemed to mingle with it, and bathed
in the soft dews of the April night. Beyond the mundane
throng, here and there, between the carriages, glimpses
of a distant, quiet land appeared, disappeared, and ap-
peared once more. Towards the east, dark houses stood
out against the orange sky, which threw a faint glow over
the gardens runnmg from the houses to the road. The
dark stream of people on foot moved slowly, enjo5dng
the pleasant air, and the subdued roll of the carriages,
that music of wealthy idleness, suggestive of pleasurable
thoughts. The ladies in their handsome carriages passed
and repassed under the green shade of the plane trees,
like lazy goddesses, running the gauntlet of eager eyes,
IN APRIL
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the envious curiosity of the public ; soothed by the sense
of notoriety, their eyes looking straight before them, fixed
on some invisible point above the crowd. This soft,
gradual movement of the stream, this restlessness of weary
humanity, seemed to be in keeping with the new move-
ment, with the fresh creative powers of the earth. Silla
would have spoken, would have gladly interrupted a
silence full of embarrassment, full of anxious thoughts,
but he could find no opportunity of doing so. They
reached the cafe in the gardens just as many pleasure-
seekers were coming out again into the street, breaking
through the stream of passers-by. He now offered his
arm to his companion, who, thanking him, just placed
her hand upon it. The light touch seemed to go to
Silla^s heart. He made a way for Edith through the
crowd, now and then stealing a glance at the little hand
resting listlessly on his arm. As they emerged from the
pushing, tramphng crowd, he felt the hand being gradually
withdrawn. He instinctively moved his arm, and hardly
knowing what he was saying, except that he was embark-
ing on a dangerous topic.
‘ Excuse me,’ he began, ‘ but did Donna Marina ever
speak of me ? ’
Edith did not expect this question. She did not with-
draw her hand, and replied simply, —
‘Yes.’
She carefully prepared a safe answer to the next, and,
as she thought, inevitable question ; but the second
question did not come.
‘What a nice mild evening,’ said Silla. ‘One feels
young again, with springtime in one’s heart. You would
not tell me all that Don Innocenzo said ; and I was so
glad to hear it from your father.’
Edith’s hand moved, but it still rested on his arm.
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MALOMBJ^A
* Perhaps you know how, when one’s hand is injured,
one avoids every pressure, even of a fnendly hand, and
how pleased one feels when one day it is seized m a
friendly grip and one has no more pain.’
‘ That means that there was a scratch, and that the
person in question fears pain very much. If the injuries
were mental, it would seem to me a humiliating thing to
feel them no longer, to recover from them as one recovers
from a fever, as these plants recover from the effects of
winter. Doesn’t it strike you m that way^ What a
crowd of people 1 And my father does not come ? ’
She gently removed her hand from SiUa’s arm and
stood still 3 Steinegge could not be seen anywhere.
‘ Pardon me, Miss Edith,’ said Silla, with a slight tremor
in his voice, ‘ you judge me hardly. That is a thing I
have been accustomed to ever since I lost my mother.
The fault is to a great extent mine, the result of my tem-
perament ; stiH, it is hard to bear. With some pride, and
some faith in the judgment of others, either here or
beyond, one may go on struggling ; but there are times
when one loses pride, and faith, and heart. May I add
one word. Men give me the cold shoulder, fortune
mocks at me. Still I have held my head high up to
now ; but it is rather cruel to hit a man on whom every-
body turns their backs. Allow me to take your arm. I
would ask you to listen to me for one minute.’
‘ I had no idea of offending you,’ said Edith, replacing
her arm in his. ‘ I was talkmg of human nature generally.’
He laid his left hand firmly on that restless hand, drew
it through his arm, and b^an to talk more frankly and
openly, in the midst of that careless crowd, than he would
have done had he been alone with Edith in the middle of
a desert
‘ Human nature ? Quite so, but not quite as you put
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it. I did not recover my strength as the plants do,
under the influence of sun, and air, and forgetfulness I
wished to get well, and I got well by force of will; I
crushed out of me a feverish desire which was dragging
me downwards. For I do not respect her, and I never
did.^
^No?’ said Edith, with involuntary vivacity,
' No, never, I want you, whose thoughts are so noble,
to believe me. I want someone like you to believe in me
and be my friend. I never tell anyone, but in my
solitary life, without friendship, or love, or hope, or suc-
cess, I often feel as though my soul would starve in the
lofty heights where I strive to keep it, reading, working,
thinking of God At such times I hear evil voices
calling, ever louder, ever louder, calling to me, calling
me to some degradmg fall which would kill my higher
life for ever. Forgive me, perhaps I annoy you with so
much talk ? ^
‘ Oh ! not at all,’ said she, softly ; ‘ I should not have
expected to hear what you say,’
* Yes, I am usually very reserved. I am talking this
evening because I seem to be in a dream.’
‘You dream,’ said Edith, ‘that you are talking to
somebody who died long ago, in whom you could trust’
‘ No, I am dreammg a dream of springtime, as these
old plane trees do when the people have ail gone home
and 4;he moon has risen. I, too, feel as though a new
life were budding within me, as though I were whisper-
ing, after a long silence, to the kindly spring, and telling
her of all the sad experiences of the autumn and winter,
as though it all happened years and years ago. I never
respected her. I must explain one thing. In my hours
of discouragement I always felt strongly that my fortunes
were under the influence of some mystenous fate. Your
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MALOMBRA
father could not tell you everything because he does not
know everything. I make the kindly spring my con-
iidante. Some time ago I published an anonymous
work, entitled A Dream."
* Can one get it ? ’ asked Edith.
‘ You will read it some day. Shortly before I left Milan
my publishers received a letter addressed to the author
of A Drea7n^ and signed “ Cecilia.” It was on scented
paper, and sparkled with wit, irony, and French epi-
grams, it dealt largely with the subjects of fate and
destiny. I did not altogether care for the tone of
Cecilia’s letter, but there was a certain strange fascination
about it ; and also, though you may smile, it flattered
my amour fropre. I have tasted but little of the delights
of public fame, and I found a greater charm in this
secret letter from an anonymous correspondent. You
see, I tell you all my troubles. Well, I sent a reply.
Cecilia’s letter reached me on the eve of my departure
for the castle. It was full of pointed remarks, and
inquisitive demands. I decided to close the correspond-
ence ; I wrote her a letter which I began at the castle,
and left here when I came for my books. Your father
has told you how I came to leave the castle. That very
day I discovered — what do you think ? — that Cecilia was
Donna Marina herself. As I was leaving at midnight I
came across her in her boat We had a violent scene.
A thunderstorm came on, and I had to see her home.
Without gomg into details, I was keenly tempted to
remain at the castle. I tore myself away from her,
whispering in her ear the name ‘ Ceciha,’ and departed
full of fear, full of the infatuated idea which pursues me,
of being the sport of a hostile power which, from time to
time, shows me happiness, ojGTers it to me, and snatches
it away as I am on the point of seizing it. It required
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all my pride before I could trample under foot those
cowardly fears; I rid myself of unworthy thoughts by
working like a madman, burying myself in ancient htera-
ture, as in a cold-water douche, and writing of my own
ideals till my brain quieted down and recovered a
healthy tone. In the end I won^ How complete was
the victory I did not realise fh&*till jevening.’
‘ Oh/ said Edith, stopping, ‘ where are we ? ’
They were alone, having passed, without noticing it,
the end of the fashionable promenade.
Edith blushed at her absence of mind and turned
round hastily, letting go of Silla’s arm, fearing that she
might have ojBfended him.
‘ I could not know all this,’ she remarked, ‘and I have
not quite understood all that you have told me. If you
only knew what my father thinks of you. I am not an
Italian,’ she added with energy, ‘and I don’t know
whether your career has been a failure ; but it is certainly
not the case,’ and her voice sank, ‘that you have no
friends.’
Whether from the tender influence of springtime, or
because moved by his recent confidences, her simple
words caused a mist to rise before Silla’s eyes. Again
he drew her arm through his. ‘ Ah I’ be said, ‘ is it true
that you believe me, even though you may not quite
understand me, and that you have confidence in me?
I would give fame, renown, a hundred, a thousand times
over if they were mine to give, not for a friendship, that
is not enough — ’
Edith’s arm trembled in his.
He went on with a quivering voice unlike his own,
and swerving in his walk as though his legs shook under
him.
* For a kindred spirit For one which would accept
304
MALOMBRA
from me, and desire for herself alone, the creations of my
imagination ; a spirit closed to the world, as mine would
be to all but hers. A spirit vivifying and pure, as the pure
sky above us. Together we should love, through oui
mutual love, God and his creation with more than earthly
love. We should be strong in our union, stronger than
the ordinary herd imagine possible, stronger than time
and misfortune and death; we should understand the
hidden mystery of things ; and across our minds would
flash visions of our future life, visions of superhuman
splendour. Shall I find such a spirit ? ’
‘ It would be an egotistical one if it desired for itself
alone the work of your brain. Fame, I believe, must
ever leave something unsatisfied, something of sadness,
in a mind such as yours ; but to have the power to move
to love and tears, to influence minds for good, and not
to use it? To have burning thoughts and to keep them
hidden, instead of sending them flashing across this
great turbid stream of earthly life!’
‘Such a part is not for me. The little that I have
written has gone down into silence, it is in keeping with
my unhappy fate. Perhaps some day a curious investi
gator of forgotten literature — ’
At this moment Steinegge appeared, red and out ol
breath.
‘ At last • ^ he said. ‘ I thought that you had climbed
up into a tree. I have been huntmg up and down aftet
you like a spaniel.'
‘ Forgive us, father,' said Edith, gently, leaving Silla's
arm and taking her father's, although he, in his ceremoni-
ous way, protested. ^We got away for a few minutes
from the crowd.'
She spoke soothingly to him in German, pressing his
arm as though she wished to compensate him for hei
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temporary absence. Poor Steinegge, perfectly happy,
made excuses for not joining them sooner, as though the
fault were his. Silla said nothing. They walked on to-
gether. The fashionable crowd was dispersing. The
broad streets, the gardens, the distant view were becom-
ing veiled in mist. The ladies, as they walked languidly
along, were emboldened by the darkness to cast keener
glances at the passers-by. One could hear conversations
in the distance, and beyond the gardens and along the
dark line of houses the lamps showed up one after the
other, bright eyes of a city preparing for a night of
pleasure. Above the houses a clear, starless sky was
still tinged with a warm pearl-coloured hue, which spread
over the edge of the bastion and the white terrace of the
‘ Garden Cafd \ ’ towards which Steinegge was making his
way with large and hospitable ideas. Opposite the
porch stood an elegant landau. A footman was open-
ing the carriage door for two ladies, who were leaving
the restaurant. Silla raised his hat. One of them, as
she passed, remarked in very friendly tones, —
‘ Don’t forget. After The King.” ’
‘I congratulate you heartily, my dear fellow,’ said
Steinegge.
‘ What about ? ’ replied Silla, contemptuously. ‘ It is the
Signora de Bella, a silly Pansian doll. I never go to
her house. This is how I came to know her. Last
autumn a man I know, named G ^ who is studying
languages at Berlin, sent me some verses by a poet of
ours, Bonvesin de Riva, which had been pubhshed there.
By the same post he sent books and photographs to this
lady, who was at Varese. The postman, by mistake, took
my little book to her house at Milan with hers. She
happened to return from Varese that day, and in Via
San Guiseppe came across me and my aunt. Signora
u
3 o 6 MALOMBRA
Perxietti. My aunt stopped to talk to her, and presently
introduced me. The lady looked surprised. “ Oh,” she
said, “ why, I have some of your property.” Not under-
standing, I said nothing. ‘‘You are the author of A
Dream ? ” she added. I was stupefied Then, smiling,
she explained about the little book of verses, and added,
frankly enough, that she had noticed a slip of paper on
which my friend had wntten, “ Send me a copy of your
Dreamt She gave me a pressing invitation to go and
call, and I did go there once or twice in December. Then
I left off calling. This morning I got a note from her
saying that she wishes to see me, and asking me to go
there to-morrow evening after the theatre.’
Silla gave this narrative with some energy, as though
anxious to explain away the acquaintance. They sat
down outside the cafL The lamps were not yet lighted,
and the tables were almost deserted. From inside,
where the gas was faring, came the loud voices of the
waiters, the clattering of cups and saucers, the ringing of
spoons and money thrown down on tea-trays. Steinegge
began to talk about his friend C , whom he had
known in the East. They first met in 1857 at Bucharest,
the next year at Constantinople, then in i860 at Turin.
Stemegge was fond of speaking of his sojourn in the
realms of the Sublime Porte. He passed on from C
to Stamboul and the Bosphorus. It excites the softer
emotions to sit in the twilight listening to tales of distant
countries, of strange tongues and strange customs. Silla
often glanced at Edith, listening to the speaker as one
listens, w^hen one is reading, to some pleasant music,
which gives a touch of poetry to one’s thoughts, though
not a single note is remembered afterwards. It was
around the graceful form of Edith in the half hght that
he wove a veil of poetry, as he listened to tales of
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307
cypresses and Moorish fountains and marble palaces and
sunlit seas. Every line of her elegant figure seemed to
him imbued with new graces, veiled in an impenetrable
charm. He could not see her eyes, he pictured them ;
he seemed to feel their soft glance in his heart. He
imagined what her thoughts were, or rather thejr dignity,
and purity, and peace. His own being seemed illumin-
ated with a peaceful light, a warmth far removed alike
from indifference and from passion, a new and indefin-
able faith in the future. He felt as though he were rising
upwards ; and at the same time his visual powers were
enormously increased, and the deep shadows thrown by
the trees upon the bastion, the sharp outlines of the
objects near him, all stood out with extraordinary clear-
ness ; and with the charm of novelty which one experi-
ences in childhood.
Meantime Steinegge talked on steadily. He was tell-
ing a funny anecdote of his crossing from Constantinople
to Messina. At that moment the gas in the lamp next to
them, touched by the lamplighter, flared up noisily, full
in Edith’s face.
She was grave and very pale, and was not looking at
her father. She gave a start, and began to listen to him
with too sudden an air of close attention to be quite
sincere. Silla noticed this, and it sent a sudden thrill of
pleasure through him.
When, later on, he accompanied father and daughter
on their return journey, very few words were exchanged
between them. As he said good-night, Silla held out his
hand to Edith, who gave him hers with hesitation, and
quickly withdrew it He hardly noticed the hearty fare-
wells of Steinegge, and went away sad at heart, yet long-
ing to be alone. He walked away with slow steps and
bowed head, calling up vividly Edith’s pale face and
MALOMBRA
308
absent eyes when the light flared up over her unawares.
He thought of all they had said, his confidences, her pro-
testation of friendship, so unusual for one so cautious,
her embarrassment at being separated from her father,
forgotten, however, when she took Silla’s arm and he
spoke to her. He came to no decided conclusion, but
he looked down at the arm where hers had rested as
though it were a spot of hallowed memories.
CHAPTER II
QUID ME PERSEQUERIS?
He slept but little that night. The deep, solemn sound
of the clock of Sant Ambrogio striking the hours filled
his loom, minglmg with his uneasy dreams, and flooding
his brain with the anxieties of the morrow. Towards
daybreak he fell into a deep sleep, from which he did not
wake till the day was far advanced. It was a dull grey
morning, and it was raining.
Silla felt worn out, as though he had travelled twenty
miles on foot during the night to walk off a feverish
feeling, which, however, his growmg weariness had only
increased. He was seized with the idea of going for a
walk on the fortifications, but did not do so. For some
minutes he remained sitting on his bed, looking out on
the dull, cold sky — as forbidding now as in ‘ February
fill-dyke' — on the wet, shining roofs, and, against the
dark windows opposite, the waving lines of rain which
ran whispering along the tiles like the rustling of light
draperies, and then rushed noisily down the water-pipes
into the courtyard below.
He kept looking out without thinking, or at least
thinking without the control of his will, confusedly. It
was the shadow of a dream of which the ideas kept
moving at haphazard, like guests wandering stupefied
through noble reception-rooms in which no host appears
309
MALOMBRA
310
to greet them. Yet in his heart he felt something which
Had not been there the evening before, a mixture of
weariness and excitement, a dull pain which made itself
felt whenever the eyes, now intent on the falling rain,
saw, in imagination, the glance of Edith’s eyes. There
was a melancholy doubt which he could ill endure.
The grey clouds knew what it was, the ram kept repeat-
ing It over and over again, —
‘ Weep, weep, she loves you not, she loves you not 1 ’
He laboriously struggled against the foolish suspicion
that Edith had changed smce the preceding evening, as
the sky had done ; that a night’s rest, followed by other
thoughts, had extinguished her growing inclination, if
indeed such inclination existed outside his own heated
imagination. He would go this very day and take her
A Dnam as he had promised. How would she receive it ?
He had at his rooms nearly the whole edition of his
novel, a great heap of volumes, dusty outside, white and
intact inside, like so many virtuous little old nuns. He
took up one, and began to think what dedication he
should write. He prepared about a dozen. Some seemed
frigid, some too high-flown. At last he wrote across the
flyleaf : —
‘ To the kindly Spring. — C. S.^
A minute later he felt dissatisfied. He thought that |he
ought to say more and make her understand what he
really felt. But on the book itself? No, that was hardly
the correct thing. Why? Not finding a ‘why^ of
sufficient efficacy he wrote underneath the dedication,
‘ The kindly Spring is loved by an obscure author for
whom nobody cares. Through her, and through her
alone, can he become strong and great, and overcome
misfortune and oblivion. If he is rejected by her, he
will let himself sink to rise no more.’
QUID ME PERSEQUERIS? 31 1
As soon as he had written this, he took up some work
to soothe the agitation which was wearing him out He
had recourse to an old manuscript, his faithful com-
panion, which grew slowly with other work, fed partly
by abstract reasoning, partly by daily experience of
mankind and of life.
When, taking the longest way round, he arrived at the
well-known door, he did not enter or even stop. He felt
that his fate was awaiting him inside. He passed on for
about a hundred paces, and then hastily turned back,
feeling ashamed of himself, and comparing himself to a
foolish boy who longs for his lady-love from afar, and is
afraid of her when near. He looked at the doorkeeper,
without speaking. She knew him, and, raising her head
from her needlework, said, ‘ At home.'
Silla slowly went up the stairs, nervously grasping hold
of the bannister. When he had rung the bell, Ws nerves
grew calmer, and he wondered to himfelf how he had
allowed his imagination to agitate him so greatly.
‘ Ah, my dear friend ! This is a great piece of luck
in this German weather. Give me your hat,’ cried Stein-
egge, who had opened the door, and who now relieved
him, by main force, of hat and umbrella.
‘ Good afternoon, Signor SiHa,’ said Edith, quietly.
She was sitting near the window, working. She had
raised hex face, which was neither flushed nor pale, for
312
MALOMBRA
this brief greeting, and had then turned away to look out
of the window at the ‘ German weather.’
From the blurred grey sky fell a searching light, like
the glare from snow. Upon the table, now stripped of its
beautiful blue-and-black cloth, lay two or three heavy
volumes, a pen and a manuscript, grouped together near
the chair from which Steinegge had risen,
‘You see,’ said Steinegge, ‘Gneist is a great man,
highly thought of in Germany. You ought to read an
article in this review, Unsere Zeit You have heard of
it? Oh! Well, I am only a small man, and when I
have translated five or six pages, I cannot go on. You
ought to make haste and learn German and translate the
“Self-Government” for your countrymen. I work for
the Count because I have to live, but with all my
exertions I make a rough job of it, for I am not good at
translating into French. I believe that you would earn a
lot of money, for all Italians would buy your work. No ?
You don’t think so? You don’t think so? Oh! that
astonishes me, my dear fellow. If I had money I would
get you to translate as a speculation, at my expense.
You wouldn’t advise that? You astonish me. I see you
have brought a book.’
‘It is a book which I venture to offer to your
daughter,’ replied Silla, placing the volume on the
mantelpiece, near the bust of Schiller, and looking at
Edith.
‘ Oh, many thanks, my dear friend,’ said Steinegge.
Edith placed her hand upon the book, and turned
towards Silla.
‘Thank you,’ said she, half surprised and half curious.
‘ What book is it ? ’
‘The book which I mentioned to you yesterday
evening.’
QUID ME PERSEQUERIS9
313
‘ Yesterday evening ? ’
'Well, look at it,* said Steinegge, pushing the little
volume into her hand with some impatience, the first,
perhaps, that he had shown when speaking to his
daughter.
' Ah, your book, A Dream / I shall be glad to read it,
of course. We will read it together, father, to rest you
after your Gneist, won’t we ? *
She handed back the book without turning a page, but
not without having glanced at the dedication and the
four lines written underneath, and then returned to her
work.
' I am sure that it is very well written, and will give
us great pleasure,* said Steinegge, blushing in his en-
deavour to add something to his daughter’s cold remarks.
' Poetry ? *
'No.*
' No ? I thought you were a poet.*
'Why?*
'You must excuse me, my dear fellow,* and Steinegge
laughingly laid hold of Silla’s arm with both hands, ' by
your tie, which is always askew. I gave lessons at Turin
to a young man who used to say that in Italy poets are
known by their neckties, which are never prosaically in
place. Don’t you write verses ? '*
' Never.*
‘This is a novel?*
'Yes*
' I expect it was noticed favourably by the papers and
the public ? It made a sensation ? *
' Yes, the noise of a stone falling into a well. It was
received coldly. I did not find a single person, even
among the few to whom I offered a copy, who received it
as one receives a stranger with an introduction from a
314
MALOMBRA
friend, a visitor who is honest, civil, not clever perhaps,
but good-hearted, and who only asks for an interview
when convenient to you.’
‘ How was that ? It must have been jealousy.’
‘No, no, no- There are some unlucky people and
some unlucky books which excite the antipathy even of
gentle natures.’
‘ That is true, old fellow, one sees that every day.’
‘ But I don’t think that an author ought to believe it,’
observed Edith, without raising her head from her work.
Silla said nothing.
* Why, Edith ? ’ said Steinegge.
‘Because such an idea must rob him of his self-
confidence and his power, and must prevent him from
studying the weak points in his work.’
‘No,’ said Silla, ‘for a time one stands firm; nay,
the more ill-fortune assails one, the more contemptuous
one feels, the harder one works, the more we strive to
satisfy our sense of duty. The wounds we receive seem
only to stimulate us, to give us fresh vigour; but one day
comes an unexpected one in the side, and then nothing
remains but to fall with one’s face to the foe, without
asking for quarter.’
‘ That may be so, but I should say that we ought to
mistrust our imagination, and not attnbute to fortune
qualities which don’t belong to it. Don’t you think that
it is more manly to trust little to fortune ? ’
‘Oh,’ exclaimed Steinegge, ‘how can you help believ-
ing in fortune? Would you be in exile, poor and almost
alone, with an old, broken-down man, if it were not for
fortune ? ’
Edith’s eyes flashed.
‘Father!’ she said.
He had not the courage to affirm in words what
QUID ME PERSEQUERIS 9 315
he had already said, but he did so by nodding his head,
chuckling to himself.
Edith rose and went up to him. ‘ Excuse me, Signor
Silla,’ she said passionately ; ‘ you are a friend of ours and
will allow me to say a word to my father. You must
know quite well,’ she added, turning to the latter, ‘ that
there is no greater happiness for me than to live with you,
by ourselves, to love you and serve you, and to feel that
I am protected by you and that you love me?’ She
said this in Italian, and then continued her affectionate
appeal in German. Meanwhile, her father kept interrupt-
ing her wnth exclamations and much gesticulation,
striking the volumes of Gneist and the table with his
hands, while every muscle of his wrinkled face quivered
with emotion. He was on the point of breaking down.
To pull out his watch and exclaim, ‘ Oh, C is waiting
for me,’ to snatch up his hat, wave an elaborate fare-
well to Silla, and slip out of the room was the work of a
moment, Edith called out after him, but he did not
answer , she ran out to detain him, but he was already at
the foot of the stairs, having forgotten his umbrella. She
stood hesitating for a moment, pale as death ; but quickly
recovered herself, and instead of returning to her seat at
the window, bent over the lamps and flowers on the
mantelpiece and re-arranged them.
‘ Signora Edith,’ began Silla, with a quivering voice.
She turned round, and holding out her hand, said, —
‘ Good-bye.’
Silla was silent for a moment, then he continued, —
‘Excuse me if I take up another minute of your
time. I wanted to tell you that now, for the first time,
after so much uncertainty and so many rebuffs, I b^in
to believe in fortune.’
Edith made no reply.
MALOMBRA
316
* Do you understand me, Signora Edith ? '
* Signor Silla, you are a friend of my father's, and there-
fore of mina I do not understand why you speak to
me m this fashion. I do not know your language very
well, but if you wish your words to convey more than
they ought to do, I do not, and will not, approve of it ’
She uttered the words ‘will not' with energy, haughtily,
in agitation. It seemed as though she were imposing
her will not on Silla only.
Silla bowed.
‘ I have no wish,' he replied, ‘ to make my words convey
more than they ought to do, and there is not one which
I need regret. For the rest, I came to-day to tell your
father that I cannot come for my lesson to-morrow.
Would you be so very kind as to give him that message ? '
* Certainly.’
‘A thousand thanks. Good-day, Signorma.'
He walked up to the bookshelf and took up his poor
little book.
‘Why?' asked Edith.
He smiled and shook his head, as though to say, —
‘ What does it matter to you ? ’
‘ My father saw it,’ she said, rather timidly, but without
emotion. Silla laid down the book on the table, and
with a profound bow, which she barely acknowledged,
left the room.
Edith, on being left alone, returned to her seat by the
window and picked up the handkerchief which she was
hemming for her father. The needle had fallen to the
ground and the thread had come out. She began to
thread her needle again. Her hands trembled and she
had to give up the attempt. She bent over her work,
and two big tears fell upon the cambric. She rose, laid
down the handkerchief, and took up A Dream^ and
QUID ME PERSEQUEEIS? 317
Standing near the table, glanced at the dedication, and
then turned over a few pages without reading them.
Turning over the pages one by one she came back to
the dedication, and her eyes rested on it. How long they
rested there !
At last she brusquely closed the book and placed it
on the mantelpiece, behind the bust of Schiller. She
thought better of it, and laid it beside the bust, where her
father had put it first. Then she opened the window
and went out, leaning over the railing of the balcony.
It was still raining and blowing:. The green clumps of
trees between the houses sadly shook their heads. A
thick white veil of cloud shut in the whole horizon , at
Its lower edge could be seen the dark line of fields. The
view was a wild and gloomy one, but Edith paid no heed
to it. She had come out in search of air, of free fresh, hfe-
giving air, and she enjoyed the cold, fine raindrops which
fell in quick succession. After a long time she went in
and composed the following letter to Don Innocenzo.
‘ Milan, 30^/^ Apnl 1865.
‘ Reverend AND Dear Friend, — We accept your very
kind invitation to pass a few days at your house, and we are
very much obliged to you for thinking of us. The Count
can hardly feel offended if we do not call at the castle ]
for he must be in need of rest after all the trouble and
confusion of a big house-party for the wedding. My
father and I are also in need of quiet and green meadows.
Excuse the bad Italian; I express myself clumsily. I
mean that we have need of the silence and repose which
one finds among green fields, and which lay to rest mor-
bid thoughts and give birth to others, fresh and simple
and as eager for pure air as the leaves and grass.
‘ For some time past my father has not made such pro-
MALOMBRA
318
gress as I had hoped, and I am uneasy, and fear it is my
fauit. I fear I did not choose the best line, and did not
turn to good account my father's great affection for me.
Perhaps I should have done better to have boldly broken
the ice at once, to have appealed to him, to have prayed,
to have demanded. Possibly I should not then have
lost part of my influence over him as I now fear to have
done through my cautious, perhaps worldly-wise, methods,
and my attempt to appear perfectly happy and contented
without a single anxious thought.
‘ I thought well, reverend and dear sir, to seek counsel
of a good old pnest to whom I went at Easter. He
advised me to offer special prayers to the Virgin and to
many of the saints. I humbly believe that this advice is
good ; yet, I have need of knowing how to manage my
father, how I ought to speak at all times, and it may be
of no small consequence if I make mistakes. I feel that
I cannot hope for help from above if I do not also use,
to the best of my abihty, my own intelligence.
* God has been very merciful to me, in that my father
now attends church regularly, and I know also that he
prays in pnvate j but these results were obtained early, at
the beginning. He listens readily to conversations on
religious subjects, which I sometimes try to lead up to,
and he then seems well inclined to the true faith ; but if
the question turns on those technical details in which the
priest necessanly has a voice, I see at once how much it
costs him to conceal his violent antipathy. Perhaps in
the early days he could have overcome this feeling, per-
haps he would do so now, if I begged him to make the
endeavour ; but ought I to do so ? Ought I to torture
myself? Can this be a filial duty? Would it bear good
fruit, acceptable to God ? When I think of the great
wrongs inflicted on my father, and the long years he has
QUID ME PERSEQUERIS^ 319
passed amid godless men ; when I think of his invincible
integrity, and his tender love for my mother, even now,
and for me ; when I think of his returning belief in God,
I begin to revere my father as a saint, although he may
not practise all the observances kept by me and other
small-minded people like me ; and it seems an ill thmg to
try to force him to do things for which his heart, as yet,
has no desire. These are my secret doubts and fears.
* I have need, reverend sir, of your oral teaching, which
is ever clear and sound. Above all, I wish my father to
pass some little time with you. He is sincerely attached
to you 3 a feeling which one cannot possibly reconcile
with his other known opinions. To me it is like a silent
signpost at the commencement of a road.
* I should be wanting in frankness if I did not tell you
that I require your assistance for myself also.
‘ You know how I regard my duty to my father. I am
convinced that my view of it is the correct one. I must
give myself up entiiely to my father, who has nobody else
in the world. For years he has wandered about alone,
enduring injustice and toil and hunger, while I was living
as a rich young lady at Nassau, never sending him even
a message. All the affection I can give him is but a poor
compensation for all this. I do not well express what I
feel. I shall do so better when I can talk to you in your
quiet house amid the peaceful fields.
* I shall tell you how my weak woraan^s heart was nearly
taken by surprise, unprepared, but with some effort my
spint rose, and now I feel a mixture of pain and fear and
soft regret, and joy at suffering a httle for my poor old
father’s sake** It is a very worldly confession which
I shall have to make to you ; one made to obtain a
welcome sense of abasement and relief; those shadows
of the life beyond, which we gain at the confessional.
320
MALOMBRA
Besides, I would wish to free myself from > . ,
my secret. Pardon this long letter. In w - ' ' • ’ F
always seem to obtain mcreased faith and 1 * '^*1
see of rehgion m Italy is not always in ac ^ ^ ^
my own feelings ; perhaps because II - ' V"
German temperament. If in this there is aii>
pride, you must tell me; it is one of my weak points.
But in all that you say I hear the ring of sterling gold,
and all my heart goes out to you in response.
‘Pray God for us and keep us in your thoughts.
‘E. S.’
Silla went down the stairs with a feeling of quiet
bitterness, full of irony towards himself, as though it gave
him pleasure to tread under foot, on each step, one of the
stupid illusions, the wild imaginings which he had carried
up those stairs but a few minutes before ; to tread them
under foot sternly, raising his head and steeling his heart
against the invisible foe. In this courtyard also the
ceaseless rain kept repeating ‘weep, weep,’ but he was
not inclined to weep. For the third time his hopes had
been blighted. The hope of a love which would quiet
the tortured cry of his soul and make him feel strong and
pure, secure for ever. Never again, waking and sleeping,
to see before him the sinister phantom of a last, final fall
into the darkness, never to rise again. For the third time
God said to him, ‘You see how beautiful it is ? It is not
for you.’ Was he to cry like a child, like a coward?
Never ! His pride and his gloomy presentiments forbade
him even to think of that which another man would have
proposed ; to make a struggle for it, to win Edith by a
long siege. That Edith was dissimulating he never for
an instant suspected. To be loved ? He ? Impossible !
he knew that already.
QUID ME PERSEQUERISf
321
Street, a few paces from the Steinegges’ door, he
,ond-rate publisher, to whom he had been given
.deduction a few days before. The latter looked
tx^e other way and passed on without bowing. What
did this matter to Silla now? He shrugged his
shoulders. He could very well put up with even this,
could afford to despise this gentleman who allowed him-
self to be rude to authors whose works he did not care
to publish. He would go on struggling as long as there
was blood in heart and brain. And there was plenty
still, rich in vigorous thoughts, in pathos, and in just
resentment. He felt that he had many things to say in
the service of truth, many fine stirring pages, before
descending, in the evening of his days, into the tomb,
unknown and contemptuous ; with the proud conscious-
ness that he had walked justly beneath an unjust God.
An arrogant and haughty thought, which, as it issued
from the solitary recesses of his mind, filled him with
amazement, with a force well-nigh demoniacal. He had
been tempted similarly before, but he had always re-
sisted. Now he yielded himself up to it, became intoxi-
cated with it. Passing by the cathedral, he went in, as
he was sometimes wont to do in the midst of his mental
conflicts.
He sat down in the central aisle. Two or three old
ladies dressed in black were praying in the grey half light
from the lofty windows ; the hurrying steps of a priest
were heard far away in the darkness, near one of the side
entrances ; one or two foreigners were moving slowly in
the warm light of the large, stained windows in the
chancel. Silla, with a sudden feeling of humility, rested
his arms on a pew and laid his head on his arms, asking,
from the depths of his heart, of the King of Spuits,
Quid me persequeris ?
X
322
MALOMBRA
A deep chilly silence seemed to pass through his soul,
like the silence of the cathedral, only more gloomy. It
was as though the shadow of the tall pillars had fallen
across him and had blotted out all thought. Even the
interior of the cathedral, the great hving spirit of that
poem in granite which rises so nobly in the sunlight, a
spint well ordered, strong and mysterious, like' the spirit
of the Divine Comedy, became for him entirely silent. A
deep, depressing sense of ill-omen fell upon him. His
will struggled agamst it, but in vain ; it could not shake
off that cloak of lead. He endeavoured to recall the
years gone by, when, as a boy, he used to come to the
cathedral with his mother, and the sound of the organ
summoned up pictures of the far East, of deserts and
palm trees and the sunny, peaceful sea. Nothing,
nothing of all this remained; his memory had grown
numb, his heart was empty and made no response.
Someone had flamed through it and shrivelled it up.
With dull eyes he followed the few foreigners who were
walking about, with hat in hand, gazing up into the air.
The frowning pillars made him feel weary, a spirit of
drowsiness seemed to rise from the marble floor, the
doors, little by little, began to yawn. It was like the
leaden calm beneath a dead sea, which has no know-
ledge of the flight of time. Silla did not repeat his
question, since there was no desire to give him a reply.
He dehberately searched his memory for some worldly
scene of voluptuous delight. He saw himself once again
in the Dart^ amid the racing waves, face to face with
Marina, who was bending forwards towards him, her face
lit up by the dazzling light of the lake behind her,
gleaming with lightning flashes. He felt her little feet
pressing against his. The cold, wearisome church be-
came warm and full of life ; it gave him keen delight to
QJJID ME PERSEQUERIS^
323
fix his eyes on those ascetic stones, to extract from them
this light, this sensuous warmth, to recognise the soft,
clear voice of the tempter, to yield himself up to it.
His imagination ran on to other feverish fantasies.
Marina was with him, no longer among the waves, but
in her own room at the castle. She whispered to him,
^At last,’ took him by the hand, drew him towards her,
smiling, with a finger on her lips, in the dark depth of
night. . .
He rose and left the church, staggering. God had
answered him.
PART IV
MALOMBRA
325
CHAPTER I
l KNOW IT, I KNOW IT, HE IS HERE ONCE MORE
SiLLA was just putting his latchkey in the keyhole, when
a telegraph boy accosted him.
* Would you kindly tell me, sir,’ he said, ‘ whether a
Signor Corrado Silla lives here ? ’
‘ I am he.’
‘So much the better Here is a telegram for you,
marked urgent. Do you want a pencil ? ’
Silla signed the receipt beneath a neighbouring gas-
lamp. The telegraph boy walked away. Silla opened
the telegram and read : —
‘Count Csesar, who is dangerously ill, desires your
presence at the castle. M. di Malombra begs you to
come. To-morrow morning at ten o’clock there will be
a carriage at the station. Cecilia.’
He left Milan by the first train next morning.
Silla arrived at the station of at half-past ten.
The day was warm and windy. Outside the station the
same young driver was waiting with his little mare.
‘Oh,’ said he, when he saw Silla, ‘it is the same
gentleman as last time. We are to dnve to the castle,
are we not, sir ? ’
32 $
MALOMBRA
* Have you come for me ? ’
*That is what I should like to know. I was to have
come yesterday morning with the luggage of the bride
and bridegroom from the castle. I go to fetch it.
Right about turn ! They are not going. Then, yester-
day evening, when I was sleeping as peacefully as a
man after a “^three-franc evening” — but not drunk, it is
cold water that sends me to sleep — well, I hear a
hideous knocking. My old woman (I still have that
piece of baggage) goes to the door. There is Rico, the
gardener’s son, with a written order from the castle to be
here at ten o’clock with the horse and trap, empty.
Now, for me to be empty at this hour is one of those
asinine things which I don’t do. Therefore —
* Enough, enough. And how is the Count ? ’
‘Very well.’
‘What 1 he is not ill ? ’
*I saw him the other day. He was rather weak,
rather old, rather ugly, rather round-shouldered, rather —
what shall I say? — ^rather broken-down; but he was in
good health. Of course, he may have been taken ill
yesterday.’
‘What did they say to you yesterday morning when
you went to the castle for the luggage ? ’
‘Nothing at all. The gardener stood at the gate;
and when I was some way off he came out into the
middle of the road and waved his arms about, like this,
to show that I wasn’t wanted, and had better clear out ;
so I said, “ Oh I bother 1 ” like that, and turned the mare
round and went off to Lecco. I got home late, and
went to bed at once.’
Meanwhile, driver and passenger had taken their
seats, and the mare trotted along gently with its head
close to the ground, carelessly flicking its tail from right
/ IT, RE IS HERE ONCE MORE 329
to left as though to flick away the blows, half serious and
half jesting, of its master. The latter ceased talking
They passed by trees, and along hedgerows in full
flower. Little huts scattered among the fields raised
their heads among the mulberry trees, glanced at the
travellers, and slowly sank to rest again. The distant
mountains formed a moving, changing circle around the
winding road. The well-known summits above the
lonely lake rose before Silla on the right and left, loom-
ing ever larger as his feverish disquiet grew more acute.
The driver could not hold his tongue for long.
* Ah ! ’ he said, ‘ the other evening there were fine
goings on at the castle.’
‘Why?’
‘ Because Donna Marina was married yesterday morn-
ing ; didn’t you know ? She was to have been married
the evening of the day before yesterday, and then, I
don’t know why, they changed their plans. To put it
shortly, the other evening there was the devil’s own
display at the castle.’ And he went on to give a vivid
description of the lights, the fireworks, the music; but
Silla did not hear a word.
So she was really married, and yet wrote to him in
that manner, with that name ! The word Cedlia at the
end of the telegram seemed to have life, and voice, and
passion ; it cried out, ‘ I love you ; come ! ’ The day
after the wedding 1 Was the Count really ill or not ?
If he was not ill, why had not the bride and bridegroom
left the castle? His fancy roamed at haphazard; he
started when, in the midst of doubts of every kind, there
rose up before him, clear in every detail, the picture
of the castle, the garden and the lake as he would see
them in two hours’ time, in an hour and three-quarters,
in an hour and a half. A nervous shiver passed through
330
MALOMBRA
him. He wondered who would be the first to meet him,
what would be said, how he ought to bear himself
towards her? And if there was nothing the matter with
the Count ? If he had been deceived ! At every turn
of the road these thoughts agitated him more and more.
Every now and then he tore himself violently away from
them and again nursed the idea of going bhndly, with a
silenced conscience, wherever the hidden force of cir-
cumstances and his own liberated passions might carry
him ; liberated, yes, at last, after so many foolish, use-
less conflicts, which had conciliated neither God nor
man. That was no road, that white line gleaming ahead
of him, sending its clouds of dust all around him ; it was
a furious torrent along which one never turns back, a
stream to drift along henceforward in pleasure and in
pain, till it falls into an abyss, the more eagerly desired
the deeper it may be. Perhaps he would pass through
some hours of splendid delight, as in the fairyland
around him, that green poem of laughing hills which
leaped down in disorder from the mountains, bearing
villas, towers, gardens, garlands of vineyards, and then
wound about the small lakes bright with sunshine. And
then —
* Might I ask you, sir,’ suddenly interposed the driver,
‘is it true that the bridegroom has such a heap of
money ? ’
*I don’t know.’
* But you know him, sir?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I’ve only seen him once or twice, and to my
humble way of thinking he must be a . . . What an
entrancing creature a beautiful young girl like that
isi That’s a sign that there is a certain amount of
money. And I was bom a beggar 1 They keep on
/ KNOW IT, HE IS HERE ONCE MORE 331
promising us the next world, us poor folk ; but I have
a lurking fear that it will be even worse than this one.
If m Paradise we are to meet nobody but priests, old
women, babies at their mother's breasts, and beggars m
rags, then Paradise, sir, is no place for me. Hi ! '
And he aimed a funous blow at the poor mare, which
was just entermg on a paved street between two rows of
houses, the last little town on the road to the castle. It
was a hot day. The mare stood still before the door of
an inn, and her master called out to mine host to bring
the usual ‘ pen and ink.’
‘ And so,’ said the innkeeper’s wife, who brought him
out his drink, ‘ and so he is dead, is he ? ’
* Who IS dead ? ’
* Why, the gentleman at the castle.’
‘ Who told you so ? ’ exclaimed Silla, turning pale.
‘ The husband of hump-backed Cecchina who passed by
only five minutes ago. Didn’t you meet him ? ’
‘ Quick, let us be going on,’ said Silla.
* I suppose we must be going,’ replied the driver, as he
handed back the glass to the woman, ‘ but if he has got
a start of us, I’m not going to hurry after him.’
‘ Drive fast, I tell you.’
The other shrugged his shoulders and whipped up his
horse.
* Dead 1 ’ said Silla to himself. ‘And I was not even
giving him a thought 1 ’
He bitterly blamed himself for his selfish forgetfulness,
and his heart became full of melancholy regret for his
mother’s noble-minded fnend, for the stem old man who
had opened his arms to him in the name of a sacred
memory. He had offended him by his secret flight from
the castle ; he knew this from a letter received from him
shortly afterwards at Milan. He had no remorse on this
332
MALOMBRA
account, because he believed he had acted honourably ;
and yet it was bitter for him to reflect that the Count
had gone down to the grave with a feeling of resentment
towards him. Dead 1 in half an hour he would see the
castle, gloomy, solemn, filled with a chilly silence, sur-
rounded by rugged mountains \ like someone whom
death has just robbed of his beloved, and who sits, petn-
fied with grief, among his silent friends. And his own
insupportable troubles, how strangely small they had
become in the shock of the news he had received. A
secret door had suddenly opened in front of him ; on
the other side all was darkness, but the air which came
thence was cold and full of calm. To enjoy, to suffer,
to love, how long do these things last ? When do they
come to an end? Above all, how much of them en-
dures?
His heart was beating loudly when from the summit
of the last hiH the road began to descend towards the
lake, which one could now see shining down below in
the valley between the leaves of the old chestnut trees.
In the middle of the narrow path leading from the
high road to the garden stood Rico, cap in hand, look-
ing very grave.
‘Well?' said Silla.
‘Just the same,' replied the boy.
‘ He is alive, then ? '
‘Yes, sir, yes, sir, the doctors are there now.'
‘Which doctors?'
‘Our own, the new one, and Father Tosi. He came
from Lecco this morning. One moment, sir; here is a
letter for you from Signora Donna Marina. You are
not to tell anybody that you have seen me, and I am
not to say anything about having seen you.^
Silla took the letter, which bore no address. His
/ KNOW IT, HE IS HERB ONCE MORE 333
hands trembled so that he could not open it At last
he managed to do so, and read, ‘ Silence as to the tele-
gram.’ Meanwhile Rico gave a shrill whistle.
‘ Why silence ? ’ thought Silla; * and how is it possible ? ’
Putting away the letter he asked the boy about the
Count's illness. He had not been feeling well for some
time. On the morning of the previous day he had
been found on the ground, between his bed and the
door, unconscious, with his face distorted. On being
assisted to bed, he rallied a little. Still Giovanna said that
he had not recovered speech or reason. This was senous
intelligence for Silla. If the Count could neither speak
nor understand, how was the telegram from Cecilia to
be explained ? There might have been a lucid interval
But if the telegram was untruthful, the letter explained
itself.
* Who is there at the castle?’ he asked.
‘Count Nepo, his mother the Countess, Madame
Catte, an old gentleman from Venice, who is to sign
the register as a witness, and another gentleman who was
here with you.’
‘FmottiP’
‘ No, sir.’
‘Ferrieri?’
‘ No, sir.’
‘ Vezza ? ’
*Vezza, Vezza, yes, sir, Vezza; he is to sign as the
second witness.’
The garden gate stood open. Rico slipped aside
among the fir trees and disappeared. Silla walked down
towards the flight of stone steps.
And now he sees the cypresses, and the fountain with
its peaceful murmur, and over there, between the green
vines and the green lake flashing in the sun, the dark roof
34
MALOMBRA
I the castle- The even voice of the fountain was saying,
a the deep silence of noon, ‘ I know, I know, I have
Jways known it, he is here once more. Nothing astonishes
he careless stream that flows on for ever. I know his
,tory, I know his fate, and hers, and that of the man who
ies in the darkened room, in the shadow of death. I
snow it^ I know it I know the mysterious secret of the
mn who speaks no more, and the woman who sits alone,
shaken by convulsive sobs, with her brow resting on the
2hill ebony, on the ivory of the ancient chest. This
does not disturb my peace. Go, go, descend the hill,
mingle the sound of your speech with that of others,
mingle with other passions the turbid stream that flows
from your own heart, so that they may pass on and
vanish together. All this is similar to my own lot. I
know it, I know it, I know it’
Reaching the last step, Silla saw Giovanna pass lightly
with bowed head across the loggia from the nght wing
to the left. He saw her make a disconsolate gesture
in reply to somebody who met her, and then hurry
away.
The courtyard was deserted; the hall equally so.
Going up the stairs, Silla heard footsteps overhead, and,
at intervals, a man’s voice talking in loud tones. A
servant came running up behind him, gave hun an
astonished glance, wished him good-day, and escorted
him to the door of the sitting-room, from which the
sound of talking came. Silla, preparing to meet Marina,
went in.
Marina was not there. Those present were Countess
Fosca, her son, Vezza, another elderly gentleman in black,
and Father Tosi, of the Do-well-brotherhood, whom Silla
knew by sight, a fine stately man with a high intellectual
forehead, aquiline features, and eyes full of life and sar-
/ KNOW IT, HE IS HERE ONCE MORE 335
donic humour. He barely glanced at the new-comer
and went on talking to Vezza ; the elderly gentleman rose
courteously; Countess Fosca and Nepo looked at him
in amazement; Vezza slightly raised his eyebrows and
bowed coldly.
Luckily, at this moment, in came Giovanna.
'Ah, dear me,’ she said, 'it’s Signor Silla ! ’ and she
went up to him with tears in her eyes, and her hands
crossed on her breast. ^^Ah, what a good thmg you have
come * Heaven must have put the thought in your
mind. Come and see him. He may come, mayn’t he.
Father Tosi ? ’
' What are you thinking about, Giovanna ? ’ exclaimed
the Countess. ' He has to be kept quiet.’
'Yes, kept quiet, whatever happens,’ repeated Nepo.
Silla turned towards the friar, who glanced for a
moment at Giovanna with a singularly kind expression,
and then said abruptly to Silla, —
'You know the patient?’
'Yes.’
‘ If it is any pleasure to you not to know or be known
by him, go by all means. For the invalid it is all the
same up till now.’
Giovanna made a gesture of entreaty.
' My good woman,’ said the friar, ' take the gentleman
with you, but don’t drag heaven too much into the affair.
What are you doing?’
The last remark was addressed to the footman, who
was laying his table for lunch with cut glass and silver
‘ plate.
'What kind of friar do you take me for? Bring me a
piece of bread and a glass of wine.’
' I think it is risky,’ Nepo went on, as Giovanna left the
room with Silla.
336 MALOMBRA
* If it were risky I should not have allowed it,’ replied
the friar.
* I could kiss her/ said he to Vezza. ‘ I could kiss
that poor, little old woman as she trots about like a little
mouse, with her little pointed cap, and her little face lit
up with human kindness. It’s a pleasure to see her.’
The Countess gave a meaning glance.
‘What a fall was there,’ she said to the elderly gentle-
man, while the friar hurried over his fhigal meal.
‘It would make one laugh if it weren’t serious. You
have to be getting back soon, father, haven’t you ? ’
‘ I don’t know,’ rephed the friar, drily.
‘Oh ! we heard you had to be getting back.’
‘You heard so!’
And you are not going ? ’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, dear ! ’ murmured the Countess, who was annoyed.
‘Madam,’ said the friar, gravely and impressively,
‘ the case, as I have already said, is a very simple one.
Partial paralysis of the right side. The patient may rally,
or he may succumb to this first attack, as God will. The
origin of the attack is obscure, and I should desire to find
it out, with a view to prevent a relapse.’
‘But, good gracious, the origin, my dear father — ’
The friar met her look with a glance from two flashing
eyes.
‘It is not necessary for you to make those eyes at me ! ’
exclaimed the irritated Countess. ‘You are a first-class
professor, but you are not the first I have known, and I
have always understood from them that to discuss the
cause of an illness is mere waste of words.’
‘And my uncle can tell us nothing,’ remarked Nepo.
‘Madam,’ replied the friar, ignoring the last remark,
‘Father Tosi is not a university don, and he made two
/ JiTNOlV IT, HE IS HERE ONCE MORE 337
great mistakes ; he wished to be a doctor and he wished
to be a friar, whereas, if he had started life as a police
detective, he would have had a brilliant career. I wish
you good-evening.’
And raising two fingers to his cowl, he left the room.
* A nice way to talk,’ said the Countess. ‘ I think he’s
quite mad. And the other man * How did he get here ?
I don’t understand it. Let me see,’ she said, turning
towards the elderly gentleman, ‘he is that friend. You
remember I told you about it, and that it was feared —
you understand ? Do you think the present was a fitting
time for him to come here ? And was it becoming, I
should like to know, for that old chatterbox, Giovanna,
to carry him off to the sick-room ? I must ask you, as a
personal favour, not to go away and leave me here. It
cannot be a long affair — ^you understand ? ’
‘ But how can I arrange it, dear lady ? ’ replied the old
Cavaliere, clasping his hands together. ‘ I am expected
at Venice in two days’ time.’
* Hush ! ’ said Nepo, placing his ear against the door
through which the friar had gone.
Signor Zorzi said no more. Countess Fosca held her
breath and looked anxiously towards her son.
‘ It is nothing,’ said Nepo, walking away from the door.
‘ What was it ? ’
‘I thought I heard someone talking. Signor Zorzi,
you are a lawyer ; how did you understand what that
roguish friar said about the detective police? What did
he mean? That we are murderers and robbers? It is
intolerable I ’
‘ I shouldn’t take it in that way,’ said Zorzi ; ‘he is an
eccentric person, and when it occurs to him to make a
bombastic remark, out it comes I ’
‘Police detectives, indeed! A nice way to talk,’
Y
MALOMBRA
33S
repeated Nepo, striding up and down the room,
fuming,
A door was opened very gently, and Catte’s long nose
peeped in. Countess Fosca and Nepo burned up to her.
The advocate moved forwards, but politely halted a few
paces behind the others, who held a short, whispered
consultation with Catte, and she then withdrew. The
door closed, and mother and son turned gloomily towards
the lawyer, who asked eagerly, —
* Well, how do thmgs stand ?
‘It’s no good,’ replied the disconsolate Countess, ‘she
won’t see me.’
‘ Not even you, Countess ! ’
‘ Oh, dear 1 Fancy me having to deal with all these
complications. Do you see your way through them ? ’
* I could not honestly say that I do.’
* We must bring matters to a head and have done with
it. You must see her, Nepo, by hook or by crook, and
talk to her, and explain things to her, and find out if she
IS ill, and what she feels, and what she wants.’
Nepo jerked the pmce-nez from his nose.
‘ You don’t understand the affair,’ he said. ‘ Let me
speak ] ’ he added, seeing that she wished to interpose ;
and then he continued, with his oracular manner, ‘ Don’t
let us do anything foolish. It is not a question of insist-
ing. We should only irritate her. I have enough good
feeling, my dear mother, to understand that at such a
time we must respect the sorrow of an affectionate niece.
She will desire the wedding to be postponed. Be it
so. I am not an impatient person. You understand,
mother ? ’
As the advocate looked at the Countess, he had an
ironical, and at the same time a pitying, expression in
his eye^
2 KNOW IT, HE IS HERE ONCE MORE 339
Nepo went up to him, buttonholed him, and talked to
him, almost touching his face with his nose.
‘ So honourable and so shrewd a man as yourself will
readily understand to what point interest and etiquette
can walk hand-in-hand, and you will not think it un-
becoming if I mention that another senous consideration
arises just now. I am disinterested, that is understood ;
but — bravo ! ^ he exclaimed, stepping back, ‘ I see you
understand. The deed of gift ! I pray that Heaven
may preserve our dear uncle for many years, but if a
misfortune were to occur ’ The deed of gift m my favour
was to have been signed yesterday morning. Will he
ever be in a fit state to sign it ? He must be watched
day and night. We cannot allow a lucid interval to pass.’
‘ Quite so, and also,’ said the lawyer, gravely, ‘ assum-
ing that there is this lucid interval, assuming that it is ex-
tremely lucid, and that the doctor is present, so that
everything may be done m order, and that we may not
put ourselves in a compromismg position.’
The voice of Father Tosi was heard m the loggia.
‘ I am going to inquire after my uncle,’ said Nepo, and
went out.
‘After all,’ said the Countess, ‘my son was right
about that matter of the police detective. It was a most
insulting remark’
‘ Most msulting. I shall have a word with that friar,
with your permission, Countess.'
‘ Certainly ; do anything you like. Dear me, what a
heap of trouble. One hardly knows where one is. It
is impossible to make head or tail of it. Here people
get married and don’t get married. Here there is no re-
gular hour for dinner, and no regular hour for bed. And
all in Heaven’s name — Oh, what a life to lead, what a
life to lead ! ’
340
MALOMBRA
A footman came in to clear away. He did not hurry
himself; he seemed to be playing with the plates and
dishes.
* Go after Nepo,* said the Countess to the lawyer; ‘ I
am going to lie down for a little. I didn’t sleep a wink
last night, and I am worn out Just send Catte to me,’
she said to the footman, and when he had left the room
she added, ‘ see if you can’t worm something out of that
Signor Silla/
Silla had not gone direct to the Count’s room. He
had first made Giovanna narrate the events of the last
two days. Poor Giovanna! She spoke in a low, sad
voice, that seemed to come from a distance, from a
world of pain.
The wedding had been fixed for the evening of the
29th. Donna Marina, at the last moment, had had it
put off till the morning of the 30th. However, there
was the display of fireworks on the lake, and the music
as arranged. The Count seemed to be amused, and
to be in his usual health. Some days before he had
been slightly indisposed, but had said no more about
it- He looked shaken, but so he had for many a long
day. Giovanna was expressive in her reticence; she
seemed to mentally trace the Count’s failing health to
the date of Silla’s departure from the castle. Well, that
evening passed off without incident. The wedding was
to take place at seven in the morning. At five Giovanna
had to fetch some keys from the Count’s bedroom, and
had found him half dead on the floor with all the symp-
toms of apoplexy. At this point, whether from emotion
or some other cause, she broke off her narrative. She
resumed it by saying that the doctor and parish priest
were sent for, and that the former, an excellent practi-
tioner who had recently succeeded the old doctor, con-
/ IT, HE IS HERE ONCE MORE 341
sidering the case most serious, had at once asked for a
second opinion, and suggested that the last rites of religion
should be administered. The patient being speechless
and unconscious, the priest could only anoint him with
the holy oil. It happened that Father Tosi was away
from home, and had only arrived a few hours before
Silla. During the day the Count had neither got better
nor worse. In the evening, the doctor was glad to
find only a slight feverishness, which increased a little
during the night. The features were more com-
posed, the eye less glassy, and even the lips now and
again moved as though trying to speak. Giovanna
beheved that if he could recognise Silla it would give
him great comfort. ‘He can have no other,’ she
added.
‘ And the wedding ? ’ asked Silla.
* Oh, dear I ’ rephed Giovanna. ‘ Signora Donna^Marina
has not set foot outside her door since the evening of the
29th. It seems that she is ill, for yesterday morning she
sent for a quantity of ice. She will not see either her
finance or the Countess. Nobody goes to her room but
her maid and the boy — her boatman. Ah, dear Lord,
all that I care for is for my master to recover, and all the
rest of them may — I Come with me, sir. How thank-
ful I should be if he is able to recognise you.'
On entering the close, darkened room, the head of the
sick man could barely be discerned, like a dark stain
on the white pillow, while near the window sat the doctor
in attendance. Giovanna went up to the bed with Silla,
bent over the poor invalid, and whispered a few words.
The Count looked at Silla with dull, glazed eyes, then he
slowly turned them towards Giovanna and his hps moved.
She placed her ear close to them, and with difficulty
caught the one word —
342 MALOMBRA
For many years no word of his native dialect had
passed his lips, unless in moments of resentment; it
came back to him now when the shadow of death was
upon him. Apoplexy had struck him down like a iSash
of lightning, had robbed him in a moment of his im-
perious will, of his quick intelligence, his tenacious
memory ; had pushed him back from sturdy old age to
childhood, sweeping from his mind everything but the
words learnt in infancy.
Giovanna gave him something to drink, then she again
attempted to call his attention to Silla.
* That's enough,’ said the voice of the doctor in the
darkness.
The poor woman went out with Silla, in great grief.
In the passage they met the friar.
*No sign of recognition, eh?’ he said.
‘ I expected as much. And what do you think about
it?’ sighed Giovanna.
‘ The end is not far off, my poor woman. Though,
if there is no second attack, it may make a difference.
Certainly there must be no more foul play, or it will
kill him straight off. You said nothing to this gentle-
man
* No, sir ! ’
* Very well ; now listen to me. I want you to show
me over the house. After that, you will give me a chair
in the loggia so that I can smoke. If I don’t smoke
withm a quarter of an hour I shall burst.’
While Giovanna and the friar went round the house,
Silla, leaning over the wall of the loggia, looked down
on the green waters of the lake asleep in the sunshine.
Had so many months really passed? The mountains,
the profound quiet, seemed to claim him as their own.
/ JsTNOW IT, BE IS HERE ONCE MORE
343
It seemed as though he had never gone away, and to
have only dreamt about Milan, and a long winter, and
anxious thoughts. But from the stone walls — the old,
stern walls — ^there leaped out suddenly the actual present,
the terror which a mortal malady diffuses about the man
stricken down, and over all floated the image of her who,
lurking in the shadow, yet filled the house with her
presence. Why did she hide away ? At every moment
he seemed to hear her step, and the rustle of her dress,
and to see her approaching m the pride of her peerless
beauty. He turned round, to see nothing but the empty
loggia, and began to listen.
That was she perhaps 1 No. It was only the Sal-
vadors’ friend, the lawyer, Giorgio Mirovich, walkmg
lightly along. He greeted Silla with a formal ‘ Servant,
sir,” and went away towards the Count’s room. He
soon returned, and speaking half in Venetian, half
in Italian, asked Silla whether he had seen the friar.
Hearing that he was going round the house with Gio-
vanna, he added, ‘ That fnar has a rather curious way of
talking,’ and he stood still and talked. The most honest
of men, but slavishly devoted to Countess Fosca, an
old flame of his, his manners were sometimes bluff, some-
times courtly, his speech at once frank and cautious. He
was aiming at finding out how Silla heard of the Count’s
illness. Silla replied that it was the talk of the neighbour-
hood, and that the most serious rumours had reached
him. He did not let him know exactly where he had
heard the news, or from what place he had started that
morning, although he had no doubt they could easily
find out from the driver. The advocate, who objected
to indirect questions, did not press the point. He con-
fided to Silla his profound aversion to these inhospitable
regions, to these mountains with their sides straight as
344
MALOMBRA
brick walls, to this house of melancholy. Both he and
his old friend were longmg to hear the ^ Sia premia
‘ Sia of the Venetian gondoliers.
At last the friar came back and Silla went into the
garden. Vezza was amusing himself by throwing bread
crumbs to the gold fish. Silla avoided him and crossed
the court, making for the iron gate. Passing by the
boat-house, he glanced at the boats, and at the little
secret staircase which leads to the right wing of the
castle. It was silent and deserted. Passing through
the gate, he went for a few yards along the road to
M and then turned back
Up there the well-known comer window was closed.
The setting sun lit up the Venetian blinds, the big
grey wall and the shining leaves of the magnolia in
the garden on the terrace. Of human life there was no
sign. Silla went for a long walk along the most solitary
paths, and came back to the same side of the castle.
The window was still closed, although the sun now
struck only on the top of the roof. Silla went back
into the castle with a presentiment that Marina would
give no sign of life during the day, but that he would
see her that night
CHAPTER II
A MYSTERY
The dinner was a sad one. Father Tosi rose from the
table immediately after the soup, to go and see the Count,
and did not return again. The Countess and Nepo ate
their dinner in low spirits. Vezza was ready to talk,
fearing that this melancholy silence would give him
indigestion. He singled out the advocate, Mirovich,
and talked to him about Venice and his friends there,
of the iced coffee, of the Venetian Institute and the
gondolas, dragging in Virgil headlong :
CowDuhum remis, rosfrisgtte tridentibus cequor.
The lawyer was bored, and gave curt replies, but the
commendatore continued to drone along between one
mouthful and another, now and then venturing on a
little laugh, such an aid to digestion ! Silla, like the
Salvadors, was silent. The Countess eyed him narrowly
as he bent over his soup, and again every time that the
footman handed him anything. She evidently suffered
beneath the forced silence, and kept glancing meaningly
at Nepo, as much as to say, — ‘ I am going to speak ; I
can hold out no longer.^ Nepo looked at her hard with
his large, weak eyes, closing her lips.
After dinner Giovanna appeared, and whispered in her
345
346 MALOMBRA
ear that Father Tosi was preparing to leave, and before
doing so desired a conference with the members of the
family, as arranged with the family lawyer.
* Tell the ^Marchioness,’ replied Fosca.
I have told her ladyship, but she says she cannot
come/
‘Tell her that we will go to her.’
‘Oh, she has already said that she will see no one.’
Silla rose quickly from the table, and, with a bow,
left the room.
‘He has taken the hint,’ said Nepo. ‘Can you tell
us, Giovanna, how that gentleman came here, and who
told him to stay ? ’
* How he came I don’t know, I was one of those who
b^ged him to stay because I know his lordship was so
upset when he went away, and if he can only recognise
him, it will do him so much good. Besides, his lord-
ship always told me to keep his room in readiness in
case he should come back.’
‘It was not your business to ask him to stay,’ said
Nepo. ‘ Under present circumstances you should have
taken orders from the Marchioness, and mine, too, I
think I may say. Now, you can tell the father that we
await him in Countess Salvador’s sittmg-room. You
will stay, Commendatore Vezza, as a friend of my uncle’s.
A true friend, be it understood, for there are some other
friends whom I would not treat on the footing of mem-
bers of the family.’
Commendatore Vezza, glad to have his curiosity
gratified, bowed and smiled.
The friar followed the others almost immediately into
the Countess’s room, and, touching his cowl, sat down,
without waiting to be invited, in a big arm-chair near the
sofa where Countess Fosca, greatly agitated, sat nervously
A MYSTERY
347
Striking her knees with her closed fan. The advocate,
Mirovich, with some embarrassment, and looking now at
the friar, now at the floor, began as follows : —
‘To explain the words — the — ambiguous words, the
ambiguous words used by the father this morning in
the presence of the Count and Countess, and — ah — of
other persons, he desires to make a further communica-
tion. I believe that is so ? A communication touching
the illness about which he has been summoned to advise.'
‘ As to desiring,’ said the friar, ^ I don’t desire at all.
It is my duty. I take short cuts, ladies and gentlemen,
and I call things by their names. My duty is to inform
you that, in my opinion, Count d’Ormengo has been — ’
Before he could finish the sentence Countess Fosca
dropped her fan, and Nepo rose to his feet. The other
two men did not move.
‘Murdered,’ said the friar, slowly, after a moment’s
hesitation, raising his eyes towards Nepo, with his arms
crossed,
‘ Good God 1 ’ groaned the Countess, falling back
breathless against the sofa. Nepo gave an exclamation
of contemptuous increduhty, gesticulating with his hands.
The advocate endeavoured to soothe him and his mother,
making signs with hands and head that they need not be
alarmed, and had better wait. Nepo yielded, but the
Countess kept repeating, louder and louder, ‘ Good God 1
good God ! ’ and burst into tears.
‘ You might have been more prudent, father,’ Mirovich
remarked brusquely, as he leant over the Countess to
support her and give her courage.
* Oh, gracious heavens,’ she sobbed, ‘ what — ^horrible —
words — and after dinner, too I ’
‘ Madam,’ said the friar, ‘ the interests of the invalid
demand that I should speak clearly and without delay.
348
MALOMBRA
Moreover, I am in the habit of speaking the truth, even
after dinner.’
‘Proceed, proceed i’ exclaimed the lawyer; ‘explain
yourself quickly.’
*I should have done so already had this lady and
gentleman been less impatient. I do not intend to
suggest that arms and poison have been employed. A
child can recognise apoplexy; and the present case is
one of apoplexy, beyond a doubt. I call it murder,
because I am convinced that the originating cause of the
misfortune was an act of violence by an individual.’
‘That is absurd,’ cried Nepo.
‘ You are absurd, my dear sir,’ replied the friar, laying
stress on each syllable, and giving him a glance, half
ironical, half defiant. ‘You are absurd. For example,
I have heart disease, you have not; and those I love
can kill me without daggers or poison.’
‘So you say — ’ interposed Vezza, to cut short the
heated dialogue.
‘I say,’ replied the fkiar, ‘that the patient was struck
down by apoplexy while violently, ternbly agitated.’
‘But how?— but how?’ asked the weeping Countess.
‘In heaven’s name, how? Don’t keep us so long on
tenter-hooks. Speak, in the name of goodness ! Do you
want to kill us by inches ? ’
‘Before proceeding,’ said the friar, ‘I wish to know
whether all the members of the family are present? ’
Nobody rephed.
‘ Are ail here ? ’ repeated the friar.
Somebody, in a low tone, remarked, —
* The young Marchioness is not here.’
‘The Marchioness, my fianch,' said Nepo, with em-
phasis, ‘is indisposed.’
‘ What is her name ? ’ asked the friar.
A MYSTERY
349
‘ Marchesina Cnisnelli di Malombra/
‘ Her Christian name ! ’
‘ Marina,’ said Nepo.
After a moment’s silence the friar remarked, —
‘ Marina. Has she not other names ? ’
‘Yes. Marina Vittoria ; but what does that matter?’
‘ It matters a great deal. Count. It matters very much.
What are the names of the women-servants, besides
Giovanna?’
‘Catte, for one,’ replied the Countess.
‘Fanny,’ suggested Vezza. No other name was men-
tioned.
‘Now,’ continued the friar, ‘is there no woman in
the castle called Cecilia?’
‘ No,’ they replied, one after the other.
‘Nevertheless, I am convinced that the other night a
woman, one Cecilia, entered Count Caesar’s room, and
irritated him, terrified him to death.’
All held their breath. The Salvadors and Vezza
stared at the friar, open-mouthed, Mirovich sat with eyes
downcast and his chin on his breast, as though he had
been prepared for what the friar had just said. The
latter rose and stood in the centre of the room.
‘ Over there,’ he said, pointing to the wall on his left,
‘ is the bed ; the Count was picked up here in his night-
shirt, face downwards, with his arms stretched out
towards the door. This you know already. But there
are other things which you do not know. The door in
the passage, which the Count always closes on going to
bed, was open. On the bed Giovanna found a glove ;
here it is.’
From his pocket he produced a tiny little glove.
Vezza and Nepo both took hold of it, and hurried to the
window to examine it closely. Nepo at once exclaimed, —
350
MALOMBRA
‘ Good gracious ! this is not a glove ! It was once,
who knows when, a five-and-a-quarter or five-and-a-half
one-buttoned glove ; a glove for a httle girl twelve years
old ; now it is a mouldy, faded rag.'
‘ Well, that rag, which cannot belong to the Count,
did not fail into his bed but was thrown there, for the
bed is a big one, and the glove was found squeezed in
between the bolster and the wall. The Count's candle-
stick, the snuffers, the glass which always stands on the
little table beside his bed, were scattered about the floor
near the door. He must have knocked them over in
a fit of passion, after vainly groping for the matches,
which he must have brushed off the table, for they were
scattered about near the foot of the bed. The glass was
certainly knocked over while full of water, for there were
splashes on the floor, and the right sleeve of the Count's
nightshirt was dripping wet I follow up this clue, and
seeing that the glass was mtact, I infer that it struck
against a soft and yielding body, which broke its fall and
saved it from breaking. What could this have been?
But it is clear what it could — what it must have been.
It must have been the dress off which came this button.’
Nepo took the button which the friar held out to
him. It was a big button covered with blue-and-white
material. Nepo recogmsed it at once. It belonged to
a tea-gown of Manna’s.
‘ H’m ! I've never seen it^' he said, examining it care-
fully.
‘Perhaps her ladyship can assist us. Show it to her.’
‘You mean the Countess? Oh, she is certain not to
know anything. Isn't it true, mamma, that I know more
about these things than you do ? If I had seen anyone
m the house wearing buttons like this, if only for a
moment, I should recognise it in a minute, shouldn't I ? ’
A MYSTERY
351
Countess Fosca was longing to look, but she saw by
Nepo’s eyes that he forbade her to do so. She did not
know what to do.
‘ Oh, dear,’ she said, * yes, that is true. But — for two
seconds — eh ? I may just glance at it.’
‘ Just imagine,’ replied Nepo, and he gave her a mean-
ing look. ‘ Well,’ he went on, ‘ look at it then, though
it’s unnecessary.’
The Countess took the button, rose from the sofa and
went to the window, where she remained for some
minutes, her forehead almost touching the glass and
her back turned to the others, who stood waiting in
silence.
At last she turned round and handed back the button
to Nepo, remarking to the friar, who watched her with
his head bent and his hands at his side, —
‘ I know nothing.’
The friar did not reply and did not move. He kept
looking at her. He noticed how completely curiosity
had vanished from her face, while the mouth said, ‘ I
do not understand.’
‘ Nothing at all,’ repeated the Countess, in tranquil
tones.
‘ Where was it found ?’ asked Nepo, hurriedly.
The friar was still silently following the Countess with
his eyes as she went back to the sofa. At last he roused
himself and replied to Nepo.
‘ It was found m the Count’s clenched hand, the left
one. You will have noticed a tom fragment of material
hanging from the button. It was clearly pulled off the
dress by force.’
‘ Quite so,’ said the advocate.
Vezza gave him an ironical glance. The shrewd com-
mendatore suspected that the button had been identified
MALOMBRA
352
from the beginning, and so thought it prudent not to inter-
vene at that moment between the Salvadors and the friar^
* Giovanna,’ continued the latter, ‘ who was the first to
enter the room, noticed some of these things without
knowing what to think of them. At first she thought a
thief had been there, not a likely thing ; then she found
his keys, money, and pocket-book untouched on the
chest of drawers, where they still are ; so no thieves had
been about. Then she thought that the Count, feeling
unwell, had wished to call for aid, to go in search of it ;
but this theory is absurd, because it does not explain the
glove, or the glass and candlestick on the floor ; it does
not explain why the Count did not ring the beU. Still,
Giovanna has grasped, in a confused way, the fact that
there is a mystery. She spoke to nobody, so as to avoid
arousing baseless suspicions, but confided in me, per-
haps on account of the cloth I wear. I proceeded as
follows/
The Countess, Nepo and Vezza hung breathlessly on
his lips.
‘ The patient’s intellectual faculties are greatly clouded,
but the doctor in attendance tells me that since yester-
day evening there is an occasional glimmer of intelhgence.
Hereupon I closely questioned Giovanna, drew my own
inferences and formed my own opinion. Then I interro-
gated the invalid.’
Countess Fosca’s big fan dropped from her hand and
slid off her lap. She did not stoop to pick it up, nor
did anyone else.
‘Owing to his condition I had to speak to him several
times for a few moments at a time. It was not supposed
that he could do more than reply yes or no* I began
by asfo'ng whether anyone had entered his room during
the night No answer. I repeated the question. Per-
A MYSTERY
353
haps it was too long, for he only looked at me and did
not attempt to reply either by words or signs. Then I
asked him in so many words — a man ? Still he does not
answer. A woman ? Ah 1 the eyes and lips move, there
is something they wish to say. I leave him undisturbed
for an hour. The faculties of understanding and speech
had made progress. He asked Giovanna for something
to drink. As soon as the doctor had gone I resumed
the attempt. I say to him : The name of that woman ?
He does not reply \ but a moment later as I was leaning
over him with a wax taper, to examine the state of his
skin, he looks at me and begins to stammer. I place my
ear near his lips, and it seems to me that I catch the word
“family’^ ; I imagine that he wishes to see them, and I
say something in reply, and tell him not to worry about
them. He continues to murmur something. I listen
again and seem to catch another word, and I try the
effect of repeating it — Cecilia ?
‘ He is silent at once, and I only wish that all of you
could have seen how his eyes dilated, how they looked
at me, and the expression which passed over the con-
vulsed features of the man. One thing more. Who,
besides the Count, sleeps in the right wing of the castle?’
‘ Why do you ask that ? ' said Nepo.
‘ Assuming that some person besides the invalid
sleeps in the right wing of the castle, that person (here
the friar raised his voice and knit his brows), still more
so if unwell, must have heard, and must know some-
thing. I advise you to closely interrogate her.’
* I have the honour to inform you, father,’ said Nepo,
with heightened colour, and speaking in his eoo cathedra
style, * that if by such words you intend to suggest un-
lawful and scandalous suspicions against a lady who is
about to enter into the closest ties with me, that you
z
354
MALOMBRA
have mistaken yonr role, and are insulting those whom
you now address.'
‘You do not know what you are saying, my dear sir,'
replied the friar, in a low tone, with forced calmness,
but you do know that I am in the habit of seeking for
the truth, even if I have to take a knife and probe living
flesh and bones, those of a grand lady as calmly as those
of a railway porter. I cut and tear in order to find it,
and I do find it almost always, unmoved as a deity ; it
matters little to me that people swear at and abuse
me. And you imagine that I shall abstain from ever
hinting at the truth to avoid offending a lady, her rela-
tions, and friends, when I know that what I am doing is
in the interests of a sick man. But you make me laugh,
you do indeed. Bor the rest, ladies and gentlemen, you
now know the facts. You will remember that, should the
invalid rally, a second shock similar to the last will kill
him on the spot. Father Tosi has done his duty, and
is now going.'
He got up and looked at the clock. His trap must
be waiting for him on the high road at the end of the
avenue.
‘ It is understood,' said the lawyer, ‘ that the father
will not mention outside — ^
‘ This is the first time that such instructions have been
given to me, and I decline to receive them. I wish you
all good evening.'
‘ In whose pay is he ? ' whispered Mirovich to Nepo,
after he had gone out.
‘What on earth was the doctor thinking about to
suggest that rogue ? ' said Nepo, avoiding a reply. ‘ If I
had only known that he would be a day late, I would
have sent for Namias fi:om Venice. I am afraid you are
upset, mamma.'
^ MYSTERY
355
‘ Upset. Of course I am upset/ groaned the
Countess.
* Of course, the confounded scoundrel ! You must
lie down and rest,’ said Nepo, with a new air of filial
anxiety. ^ Let us go away and leave her by herself. I
confess myself that I am dying for a breath of fresh air.
Would you be so good, Mirovich, as to go and inquire
how my uncle is. I am going to get my hat, and shall
walk across the court. You can let me know from the
loggia if he is going on satisfactorily, as I hope he is.’
After ten o’clock the same evening the Salvadors,
Vezza, Mirovich and Silla were standing round the
dining-room table. They were listening to the account
which the doctor was giving of his patient before going
home. The doctor, dressed in black cloth cut in the
fashion of twenty years before, was discoursing about the
case, and overwhelming these modest city gentlemen
with a string of Greek and Latin names, and quotations
from text-books and scientific journals. The lamp in
the middle of the table, with its large, dark shade, left the
room and the people in it in the shadow, and threw
upon the tablecloth a circle of light which included
within Its circumference the large, red hands of the
loquacious doctor. In his opinion, the position of
affairs was on the whole satisfactory. The right leg had
partially recovered the power of movement, and the arm
also was no longer completely inert In the under-
standing and the power of speech, the progress made was,
it is true, less marked, but one might, indeed one ought
to believe that with time much might be done ; if not a
complete recovery, at least —
He had reached this sanguine stage of his diagnosis,
when he stopped short, raising his chin and looking,
with half-closed eyes, beyond the listening circle around
MALOMBRA
35 ^
him. He then made a bow. Everybody turned round :
it was Donna Marina.
The group round the doctor broke up in confusion.
Countess Fosca and Nepo went towards Marina, the
others making room ; and all this took place quietly
without a word being spoken. Nepo looked at his fiande
^ with two large stupid eyes, which had a frightened
look in them.
*Good evening,’ whispered Marina. As the doctor
made no reply, she repeated, rather louder, in her care-
less way, ‘ I beg you to proceed.’
She was dressed in black or dark blue ; it was not easy
to see which. In the half light one barely distinguished
the beautiful figure, the large eyes, the white face and
neck. She looked once over her shoulder, as though
looking for a seat. Nepo urged her to sit on the sofa,
but she chose an arm-chair immediately opposite to the
doctor.
* At least,’ continued the latter, hesitating, magnetised
by the large eyes fixed upon him, ‘ at least the use of
the legs, and, perhaps, also the partial use of the arm.
These, I say, may be partially recovered, and the intel-
lectual faculties — ^ah, there is much difficulty about that.’
The intonations of his voice seemed involuntarily to be
infiuenced by Marina’s eyes.
Vez2a, who was near her, studied those eyes atten-
tively, managing to avoid being observed by the Salva-
dors. There was a wandering, feverish light in them, an
expression of intense cunosity, something new which
aroused Vezza’s attention.
Somebody comes in ; it is the parish priest, come to
hear the latest bulletin. Poor Don Innocenzo, short-
sighted and nervous, could not tell one person from
another, greeted people by the wrong names, apologised,
A MYSTERY
357
and kept breathing with pursed-up lips as though the
floor burnt his feet. Meanwhile the doctor took
his leave. A chill seemed to fill the room; nobody
ventured to speak above a whisper. Nepo, bending
over Marina’s arm-chair, inquired soUo voce after her
health, and said how grieved he had been to see nothing
of her during the last two days. On the other side of
the chair was Countess Fosca, who was in doubt what to
do. She leant over to Marina and whispered in her ear,
then she withdrew so as not to get between Marina and
Nepo ; then she again yielded to her first impulse. The
priest was hearing Mirovich’s account of the Count,
standing a little towards one side.. Silla had not stirred.
As she entered the room Marina had glanced at him
for an instant, fixing him, as though petrified, to his
post.
She now rose.
‘ I should like to speak a word to Signor Silla,’ she said.
The latter bowed, turning very pale.
The Countess, Nepo and Vezza looked at Marina
in amazement, expecting an outburst, a scene like
that of the previous year. The advocate broke off
his narrative. Don Innocenzo, not understanding why,
said, —
‘ Well, well.’
‘ Not here,’ said Marina.
Vezza and Mirovich at last made signs of withdrawing.
The Salvadors did not move.
‘ Remain here, please,’ Marina continued. ‘ I must get
some fresh air. Will you come into the garden. Signor
Silla?’
The latter bowed once more.
‘ Into the garden ? ’ exclaimed Countess Fosca, with
a brusque gesture of annoyance
MALOMBRA
35 ^
* On such a chilly night ? ' she added presently ; ‘ I do
not think — ’
‘In this damp air? 'said Nepo. ‘The loggia would
be better ! '
‘Good evening,’ said Marina, ‘lam going to take a
turn, and then I shall go to my own rooms.’ Nepo
wished to make some rejoinder, and nervously stammered
out a few words. Donna Marina took a step towards the
door and looked hard at Silla, who was holding it open
for her.
‘Good evening,’ she said again.
Nobody answered her.
Marina slowly descended the broad, dark staircase,
with the noiseless step of a fairy. Silla kept close behind
her, with a choking sensation of inexpressible emotions,
walking like one half blind. Another minute and he
would be alone with her, out in the night.
The glass door leading to the garden was wide open.
The hanging lamp in the vestibule, waving in the breeze,
shone outside upon a stretch of red gravel, and, near
the door, upon Marina’s white shawl thrown across a
chair. She handed the shawl to Silla, and stood still for
him to put it on for her. Their hands met ; they were
cold as ice.
‘ It is cold,’ said Marina, drawing her shawl about her.
The voice was tremulous and unlike hers. Silla made
no reply ; he thought she must hear the beating of his
heart. For an instant his hands rested on her arm as he
rearranged the shawl for her. She trembled, and her
shoulders and bosom heaved. She stepped out silently
into the night ; walked about fifty yards down the avenue
and then leant over the parapet and looked down at the
lake.
The night was dark. But few stars shone in the cloudy
A MYSTERY
3S9
sky, between the huge, black mountains whose dark out-
lines sloped down to the lake. The murmur of the
fountains, the distant chirp of the crickets in the fields,
went and came with the breeze.
Silla only saw the graceful white figure bending over
the parapet beside him.
‘ Cecilia/ he said, quietly, drawing nearer to her. She
rested her chm in both hands. Then she held out one
to Silla without turning round, and said to him passion-
ately, —
‘ Yes, always call me that. Do you remember ? "
He pressed with both his own that little hand of per-
fumed satin. He feared to appear cold, his senses
seemed to leave him at that moment. He raised her
hand to his lips and kissed it passionately on the
wrists.
* Tell me ; do you remember?’ repeated Marina.
* Oh, Cecilia ! ’ he said.
He turned round her hand in his, glanced rapidly at
the palm, pressed it across his eyes and said, deeply
agitated, —
‘There is no world for me now, nor relations, nor
friends, nor past, nor present ; nothing, nothing, except
you ; take me, take me, body and soul I ’
He wished to rouse himself and he succeeded. He
pressed that little hand to his lips, and as he thought of
the bitterness of his life, of the injustice of the world, he
threw into that kiss a smothered spasm of passion which
thrilled her to the heart.
‘No, no,’ said she, in a broken, quivering voice ‘not
now.’
Both of them were fever-stricken.
‘When did you remember?’ said Marina.
She had in her mind the fixed idea of Cecilia Varrega,
360
MALOMBRA
who had re-found, in her second existence on earth, her
first lover.
* Yesterday evening,’ he said, believing that he under-
stood the question. Yesterday evening at Signora De
Bella’s, who spoke to me about you ; after that they played
some music which completely carried me away. I leave
the house half mad, and find your telegram. Then
everything became clear to me, I felt that fate had
seized me and was carrying me here. Leave me this
little hand, this world of sweetness. You do not know
what my love for you is. I feel as though it will kill me
if I cannot tell you all, and the words fail me. I wish I
could be drawn down for ever with you through the
waves that are calling to me now.’
He drew towards him the lifeless, impnsoned hand,
her arm, her whole form.
‘To-morrow,’ whispered Marina, resisting; ‘to-morrow
night after eleven o’clock I will be at the boat-house.’
He would not let go of that little hand, he kept his
insatiable lips pressed against it.
‘ Come,’ she said, suddenly roused, ‘ follow me at a
distance, do not speak, and at the doorway leave me.
I knew It.’
Silla understood and obeyed. He had hardly gone
two steps when he saw someone in the shadow. It was
Catte.
‘ Ah, your ladyship is here. I have been looking
everywhere for you. Her Excellency told me to bring
you this shawl.’
Marina did not deign to reply, or even to look at the
Countess’s maid ; in the doorway she bowed coldly to
Silla, and disappeared in the vestibule.
Silla walked across the courtyard, went a little way up
the flight of stone steps, and stepping out on one side sat
A MYSTERY
3^1
down on the grass beneath a cypress, drinking in the
rich perfume, while his eyes wandered along the black
column to the stars above.
Later on Countess Fosca, Ufe-h-ttte with Nepo in his
bedroom, wept wildly, inveighing against the friar who
had said all these horrible things, and against the Milanese
lady who had first told them about Marina ; she kept on
asking what there could possibly be between Marina and
her uncle. What she could have said? Wliat she could
have done that night ? and protested that she personally
was losing her head and could stand no more of it, that
she must get Nepo away, cost what it might, and that
she would abandon that ill-starred house and its master
and its mistress, and the money and everything else.
When she had finished she began all over again. Nepo
was angry and said nothing; only, when his mother
raised her voice too much, he made a gesture of impa-
tience. At first she resented his conduct, and said,
‘ WTiat do you mean, saying nothing ? ^ But Nepo became
more enraged. Then the poor woman humbled herself
before him, and mournfully repeated, ‘ Nepo, she is mad !
Nepo, she is mad 1 ’
She wished to send for the advocate and take his
opinion. Nepo opposed this idea so resolutely that she
believed he had already a plan of his own, asking him
what he intended to do.
‘To wait,^ he replied, ‘and do nothing to compromise us ’
‘The deed of gift, darhng, is what I am afraid about.
He is getting worse,’
‘ Wait,’ repeated Nepo.
* All very well to talk 1 ’
He jerked off his pince-nez^ seized his mother by the
arms, looked her straight in the face, and in a voice
choking with passion said, —
362
MALOMBRA
* If there is no will ? ’
The Countess reflected for a moment, looking at him.
* Everything will be hers ? * she said. ‘ Marina will have
everything.’
Nepo stepped back and made a gesture of ap-
proval.
^Eh!’ said he, adding, 4n that case we will think
about it.’
A long silence followed.
*One of your buttons is coming off, darling,’ said the
Countess, affectionately.
Nepo looked at the button, which was danghng from
his coat, and replied in the same tone, —
‘Momolo, who never looks. I am going to see the
Count’
‘And this evening’s affair?’ said the Countess, as he
walked away, * A nice state of things 1 ’
‘I don’t trouble my head about that,’ said Nepo.
‘You have just heard from Catte how she saw them
walking back to the house. Besides, judging from what
Marina herself said, I don’t believe that she offered him
either excuses or soft words. You will see that to-
morrow, not to say this evening, the man will leave the
castle. What have you got into your head ? After his
leaving the last time in such a way and for such a reason !
He told Mirovich how he happened to come this time,
having heard in the neighbourhood of the Count’s
illness. Well, I am off.’
In the passage he came across Catte, talking to the
advocate, and Vezza, who were smoking. On seeing her
master, Catte disappeared ; the other two had not heard
how the patient was since the doctor left Nepo went
off on tip-toe to find out, and the two men resumed their
conversation. They were talking of the curious events
A MYSTERY
3^3
which were taking place beneath their eyes ; Vezza with
the interest displayed by a selfish and inquisitive man,
Mirovich with a certain regret due to his sincere devotion
to Countess Fosca. They made a hundred conjectures,
but always had to admit once more, with the Countess,
that they could make nothing of it. Mirovich concluded
by calling it a hopeless imbroglio. After a long silence,
Vezza made some remark about the profound stillness
of the night , and his companion, thinking of Venice in
bygone years, hummed the first bar of the popular song
which begins — ^ Stanote de Nhia,^
Very pretty, very pretty ! Go on I ' said Vezza. Just
then Nepo returned to the loggia.
‘ How is he ? ’ asked the advocate.
‘Worse, a good deal worse,’ said Nepo, and passed
on.
‘ This is a bad business,’ sighed the lawyer.
‘ I should think it was.’
For a moment the fountain m the courtyard behind
them could be heard talking to itself.
‘ His health was already shaken,’ said the commen-
datore.
* Oh, yes.’
‘ And he lived a solitary life,’ Vezza went on.
‘Very.’
‘ Almost, almost — ’
‘ Oh, I believe so myself.’
The mild voice of the fountain was heard talking
to itself. Vezza threw away his cigar.
‘What awful poison 1’ he said. ‘Well,’ he added,
after a brief pause.
‘Well, what?’
‘ The little song.’
‘ Ah, here it is. Stanote de Nina — ^
3^4
MALOMBRA
The lawyer lowered his voice, and the light north
wind that passed through the arches dissolved and
earned away the amorous notes.
In his bedroom, where a small feeble lamp, placed on
the floor, sent a certain sepulchral gleam through the hot
close air, lay Count Caesar, motionless. He did not see
Giovanna, who was sitting close beside him, with her
hands crossed on her knees and her eyes fixed upon
him. He thought that he saw before him the face of his
niece, who was standing upright in the centre of the
room. It was his niece and another person at the same
time; that struck him as quite natural. She moved,
and spoke, and gazed at him with two eyes filled with
madness ; how could that be, since this person was dead
and buried long ago ? He knew quite well that she had
been buried, for he remembered having heard so from
his father ; but where, where ? Torturing forgetfulness »
Somewhere in his memory there was that place, that
name ; he felt it stirring, rising, rising until it stood out
in letters that could be seen.
He believed that he then raised his right arm from
beneath the sheets, pointing the forefinger at her, and
that he told her she was lying, for she had been buried at
Oleggio, m the family vault. But the woman still kept
threatening him, defied him, threw a glove at him; she
looked like Marina, and was really his father's first wife,
Countess Cecilia Varrega. He heard her voice, she
spoke of crimes committed long ago, of a vendetta to be
accomplished. Then he imagined that he sprang, mad
with anger, out of bed, and everything became con-
fused in his mind in one vision of horror, on which he
breathlessly dwelt, as though on the threshold of death
there appeared to him beyond, a dread, superhuman
tragedy.
A MYSTERY 365
There was an unexpected relapse, the paralysis was
threatening the lungs.
The castle had never appeared more gloomy than it
did that night, in spite of the lights which kept watch
there until the dawn.
CHAPTER III
PEACE
‘ How nice it is to see you i How nice it is to see you ! ’
said Marta, as she hurried up the parsonage stairs to
place their luggage in the rooms prepared for Edith and her
father, and to throw open doors and windows. Then
she called out to Don Innocenzo below, —
‘Are you happy now?’ And she rushed downstairs
again, hot and excited, protesting that the parsonage was
not the castle, and that they had not this, and they had
not that. She was longing to give Edith a kiss, but did
not dare. Steinegge, as dusty as an old bottle of Bor-
deaux, protested, for his part, against so much ceremony,
and kept rubbing his hands and gesticulating. Don
Innocenzo, whose eyes were bright with pleasure, said he
was right and Marta wrong, and that he believed that
his guests would be comfortable in his house ; otherwise
he would not have invited them. Marta then turned on
her master. ‘ But what things you are saying ? Am I
to hear such things from you ? ’
‘ Well, well,’ rephed the poor priest, noticing her excite-
ment, ‘come, come, calm yourself. She is a good
creature,’ he added, turning to the Steinegges ; ‘she has
worked very hard to get things ready for you.’
Here Steinegge protested afresh, and Marta, in despair
3^6
PEACE 367
at having such a master, hurried away to the kitchen so
as not to lose her respect for him.
‘But tell me, young lady,’ asked Don Innocenzo of
Edith, ‘ have I said anything wrong ? You know your-
selves that I am only a poor parish priest.’
‘Great people like ourselves sometimes condescend,’
replied Edith, jesting.
The little house was bright and cheerful. There was
not a speck of dust on the furniture or on the windows ;
the white muslin curtains, which had just been washed
and ironed, diffused a pearl-coloured light through the
little rooms, which smelt clean and fresh. In the dining-
room, on the ground floor, a solitary sparrow chirped
cheerfully near the two doors leading to the garden;
while in the middle of the table stood a white porcelain
vase full of flowers. Through the two doors, through
every window, came glimpses of the soft green of the
meadows ; and there came also a deep sense of repose
to one who had just come from a great city, and whose
eyes still ached from the rattle and jolting of the train,
and whose bones were stiff after a long drive. There
was peace and calm even in the big, old-fashioned sofa,
in the old, faded engravings in the dining-room, in the
stuffed birds which built their nests inside two glass shades
on the study mantelpiece. Even the clock between the
glass shades, with its sharp, quavering tones, like the
voice of a deaf old man, added to the general air of repose.
And beneath the smiling calm of the little dwelling lay
perfect purity, above suspicion, resting innocently in the
warm bosom of nature, looking out on life. One traced
it even in the awkward shapes of certain pieces of fur-
niture; since, if everything spoke of peace and quiet,
neither the narrow sofa nor the straight-backed horse-
hair chairs promised the luxury of careless ease or of
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368
fancy wandering at will. From the study, with its well-
filled bookshelves, issued an air of austere thought ; thus
the aspect of the house reproduced, in some measure,
that of Don Innocenzo, gay, simple, sedate. He was
glad to have the Steinegges with him. They brightened
his solitude and relieved the loneliness from which, at
heart, he suffered. For he had a simple admiration
for modem society, and loved to talk of politics, literature
and the latest ideas. He had taken to Steinegge at
once , while for Edith he felt, more especially after her
last letter, a deep regard, mingled with a sense of m-
ferionty. The confidences of so noble a spirit almost
alarmed him. He feared that he might be unable to
rise to them, be unable to grasp some feminine distinc-
tions, to understand some subtleties of sentiment into
which he must enter if he was to advise her, and to
exercise the offices of religion for which she had asked.
At the same time he harboured a vague suspicion that
there was something excessive in Edith’s asceticism, and
that her tenacious attachment to it ought to be com-
batted, In fact, he had an attractive but serious task
before him, one of those which absorbed him ; making
him think calmly, speak temperately, act with caution.
Before Edith and her father went up to their rooms»
the priest insisted, in spite of Marta’s protest, on taking
them into the garden to see his rose trees, straw-
berries and green peas. His little kitchen garden
seemed to him to be a marvel, and he was extremely
proud of it. He spoke as though the green shoots
from the few seeds planted in his beds, and the flowers
that grew out of the green, and the fruits that grew
out of the blossom, were so many miracles, all his own.
And now Steinegge, also a profound botamst, scattered
compliments to right and left, over the strawberries and
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369
green peas, and defended himself, with afresh set of com-
phments, from old Marta, who had come up behind him
to brush his overcoat Edith lingered behind, looking
abstractedly at the somewhat chilly green of the meadows
beneath the cloudy sky, and smelling the young rose-
buds. Sweet innocent perfume, rising into the air like
the prayer of a httle child. Meanwhile Don Innocenzo
was greedily drinking in Steinegge’s worldly compliments,
remarking — ‘ Is it not ? Tell the truth, now.’ WHien the
green peas were exhausted he took his guests to see the
new treasures he had collected. First among these was
^Veuillot,’ a loquacious and impertinent sparrow, who
had got this nickname from a merry priest, who, annoyed
by his continued chatter, had turned round on him, cry-
ing out, — ‘ Hold your tongue, Veuillot.’ * And I rejoice to
see him caged up,’ added Don Innocenzo, ferociously, after
telling the anecdote. He had also some new specimens
of pre-historic pottery dug up in making the foundations
of the new paper mill — the large, square, white building
that could be seen rising up beyond the poplars along
the little stream, in the middle of a scarred, burnt patch
in the green grass. Don Innocenzo was still enthusiastic
about the paper mill, partially perhaps owing to the
discovery of his pottery. Passing through the study,
Steinegge leant.for an instant over a book which lay open
on the escritoire in front of Don Innocenzo’s arm-chair.
The latter skipped across the room like a boy, caught
up his book and laughingly hugged it, blushing to the
roots of his hair. Steinegge, blushing too, began to
apologise.
‘ Don’t mention it, I beg. Take it, take it 1 ’ replied
Don Innocenzo, pressing the book with both hands on
the unwilling Steinegge.
‘Ahl’ said the latter, as soon as he had glanced
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MALOMBRA
at it * Mein Goit^ mein Gotti I should never have
believed it.*
It was a German grammar.
‘Don’t say anything. Let it be. I don’t understand
itr exclaimed Don Innocenzo, still laughing; and he
took back the book, threw it on to the escritoire, and
placing his biretta over it, hastened away to rejoin
Edith.
There was now nothing more to be seen, and the house
became silent, for the Steinegges went upstairs to their
rooms while Marta was laying the cloth.
The peaceful silence was only broken by the clatter of
knives and forks and plates, or by an occasional heavy
footstep on the rough road the other side of the
garden. Edith was glad to feel that she was so far away
from Milan, in the midst of quiet scenes and green
meadows, as she herself had written; and as she un-
packed her trunk she called out to her father, asking him
whether he was happy. He came from his room, tying
his cravat, his eyes bright with pleasure. He should think
he was happy I Edith pointed out to him two rosebuds
in a little glass on the chest of drawers, and Lessing’s
Nathan der V/eise. Her father, too, had found flowers in
his room, and Schiller’s Thirty Years^ War, in German.
a kind and cordial welcome Don Innocenzo had
given them. Edith thought him somewhat aged ; Stein-
egge thought not. And what a good creature Marta was I
They exchanged their impressions in a low tone while
Edith put away her things. She had brought a few
German and Italian books with her, but not A
Dream. When her father expressed regret, she did not
reply; but she slipped her arm through his and drew
him to the window, which looked out on the garden, the
rough, winding road, the fields, the poplars beyond the
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371
river, and, further still, the hills and a wide stretch of
white clouds.
‘ I feel as if I were a little girl again,’ said Edith ; ‘as
if I had lost my way, and after crying bitterly had found
my way home again. Don’t you feel more at home here
than at Milan, father?’
Somebody was talking in the garden. It was Don
Innocenzo and an old peasant woman, who was crying
and complaining of her daughter-in-law. The priest
endeavoured to soothe her \ and then the old dame began
another tale, more confidential and equally sad. Don
Innocenzo kept interjecting, ‘ Well, well I ’ in a satisfied
tone, as though this last misfortune was more easily
remedied. He hurriedly thrust some money into her
hand and hastily dismissed her.
‘ She’s a regular witch, that woman,’ said Marta. * I
hope you haven’t given her anything ’ ’
‘ What are you thinking about 1’ replied Don Innocenzo.
‘ These roses and these German books,’ said Steinegge,
from his window. ‘You are really too kind. We hardly
know — ’
‘Oh! those are some old books out of the family
library. Come down, come down and we will have
dinner,’
The meal began merrily enough. Marta seemed to be
everywhere at once. She was to wait at table, but she
also ran backwards and forwards from the kitchen, in
spite of the visitors’ protests. Edith declared that
she would allow her to have her own way on this
occasion, but she must insist on taking her share
of the housekeeping from to-morrow. Marta replied,
‘Never, never!’ Steinegge then offered his services
as assistant cook, promising some Kldsse^ which he
said he had taught Paolo at the castle. Poor Don
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MALOMBRA
Innocenzo only knew how to make the coffee, and this
he humbly proposed to do.
' By the way 1 ’ exclaimed Steinegge, waiting impatiently
till the pnest had finished what he was saying, ‘ we have
not yet inquired after the Count I ’
was at the castle two hours ago,’ replied Don
Innocenzo. ‘ He w^as rather better than he was yester-
day evening.’
‘How do you mean — ^rather better?/
And Steinegge leant forward anxiously,
‘111 * ’ exclaimed Edith, in astonishment.
‘ Haven’t you heard ? ’ replied the priest.
‘Nothing !’
* I thought that perhaps Marta, or somebody else, would
have told you. Ah ! a very sad, a very melancholy state
of things.’
* Dear me, you haven’t heard I ’ said Marta, resting her
hands on the table. ‘Weil, of course, how should you
hear? It only happened two days ago.’
‘But, in Heaven’s name, what has happened?’ said
Steinegge.
‘Well,’ replied Don Innocenzo, ‘what is to-day? —
Wednesday. Well, on Monday morning, or rather on
Sunday night, the Count had an apoplectic fit.’
‘Oh I’
Don Innocenzo narrated, with occasional corrections
from Marta, what he knew about the attack. Steinegge
was terribly shocked by the sad news, and Edith also was
greatly upset.
‘And the bride and bridegroom?’ she said.
‘They are not married yet,’ replied the priest
‘And they won’t be married before the Day of
Judgment,’ added Marta.
Her master scolded her for this, remarking that the
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373
wedding was merely postponed, and that there had been
every reason for doing so. Marta went off to the kitchen,
muttering to herself.
* There are other complications, too,’ said Don
Innocenzo, in a low tone.
Steinegge ceased to think about his dinner ; and rest-
ing his elbows on the table, waited for further news.
‘ Later on, later on,’ whispered the priest, with a sign
and a glance towards the kitchen.
‘ Ob, I little expected this * ’ exclaimed Steinegge.
Edith inquired after Donna Marina. The priest said
that she was well, that he had seen her the evening
before.
Meanwhile, Marta had brought in the next course in
silence, for she was angry at the rebuff administered to
her by her master, and annoyed that this tender and
well-flavoured piece of veal, with its accompanymg
capers, would pass unnoticed owing to the unhappy turn
which the conversation had taken. She feared a similar
fate would befall the roast fowl.
‘ After dinner we will walk up to the castle, won’t we,
father ? ’ said Edith.
‘ Of course.’
Veuillot alone had not lost his merry loquaciousness.
He chirped away so vigorously that he forced the party
at the table to listen to him, and to talk about him, and
his unjust nickname. The setting sun lit up the ceiling
of the room. Don Innocenzo began to talk about his
precious pottery, and of the learned antiquaries who
were coming to see it.
Edith offered a few critical remarks which scandalised
her father. He had every confidence in the pottery and
the antiquaries, and began to talk about the Swiss lake-
dwellings, which he knew something of. Suddenly he
374
MALOMBRA
Stopped short, remembering that they ought to be start-
ing for the castle.
^ Wait,’ said Don Innocenzo, ^wait for the coffee.’
‘ I think we ought to have it in the garden \ don’t you ? ’
They went out into the garden, where the air was
fresh and sweet. The sun had burst through the clouds
and was lighting up the hills in the west ; the little house
was aglow, the windows were flashing in the light.
Edith said she would bring the coffee. Steinegge and
Don Innocenzo sat down to wait for her on the low wall
surroundmg the garden, opposite the dining-room.
<]Marta is a good soul,’ remarked Don Innocenzo,
^but a great chatterbox. There are complications at
the castle. That young man Silla has just turned up
again.’
Stein^e nearly jumped off his seat.
‘Excuse me, but it’s hardly possible! Why, I saw
him only the other day at Milan, in my own house, and
he didn’t say a word about this.’
‘So it is, however.’
‘ You have seen him ? ’
‘Yes.’
‘ Oh, but really — forgive me, but I almost think your
eyes have deceived you ! Oh, it’s not possible. He
here, at the castle ? ’
He got up and walked hastily up and down, along the
wall, muttering to himself in German,
He stood still, an idea had flashed across him.
‘Perhaps he was recalled?’ he said, ‘By telegram,
perhaps.’
‘It may be so, but I can’t believe it, for I have told
you in what state the Count is. The Marchesina could
not bear the man when he was last here, and the Salva-
dors dor not know him.’
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375
^ And what is he doing here?*
‘Well, well, you know the common report about him?
There is little doubt that his arrival at the present
moment is a thorn in the side of the young Marchioness
and of the Salvadors.*
‘The Count’s money? Oh, that is a falsehood, a
calumny!’ said Steinegge, excitedly. ‘Pardon me, you
do not know all I do. Do not believe it. The story
about Signor Silla is absolutely false, and I could swear
that he has not come here from any such low motive.’
Don Innocenzo gave him a sign to say no more. At
the kitchen door Marta was disputing Edith’s possession
of the coffee-pot and cups
‘ No, no,’ she was saymg. ‘ These things are not fit
for you to do. Well, well, do as you will, there 1 ’
Edith came along with short steps, giving her whole
mind to her task, keeping her eyes fixed on the cups
with their red-and-green pattern, on the sugar-bowl, and
on the coffee-pot, which threatened to tumble over.
The rich glow of the setting sun streamed over her face,
over the tray she carried, over her delicate hands.
‘Don’t you know?’ asked her father, impetuously, in
German, ‘that Signor Silla is here?’
She stood still and remained silent for a moment,
without giving any other sign of surprise. Then she
asked quietly, —
‘Where? Here?’
‘At the castle.’
She put down the tray on the wall, and asked Don
Innocenzo whether he took his coffee with sugar or
without.
Her father was amazed at her indifference. Perhaps
she had information of her own? Perhaps Silla had
given her a hint the other day?
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MALOMBRA
No, Silla had told her nothing, and she knew nothing.
She observed that Signor Silla might have been
summoned by a telegram.
‘No, my young Lady, for that gentleman they never
set the telegraph wires going,’ said Marta, behind her,
bringing a teaspoon for the sugar. Don Innocenzo,
intent on his coffee and the conversation, had not
noticed her approach.
‘ What do you know about it ? ’ he said.
‘ Why is poor me to know nothing ? ’ replied the petul-
ant Marta. ‘ That gentleman seems to have fallen from
the clouds. Nobody expected him. The only person
who is glad is Giovanna, because she knew the Count
was fond of him. The others can’t bear him, especially
Signora Donna Marma. My master, of course, won’t
tell me anything ; but he knows quite well that yesterday
evening her ladyship made this Signor Silla step out into
the garden, and gave him a piece of her mind.’
‘How do you know these things?’ asked the as-
tonished Don Innocenzo.
‘ Oh, I hear this and that. It’s true, isn’t it ? ’
‘ It is true that she asked him to go into the garden,
but what she said to him neither you nor I know.’
‘No, of course, nobody heard what was said; but
those who ought to know say that she told him to go away,
because it was she who made him go away the last time.’
‘ But he has not gone ? ’ said Edith.
‘No, no, he has not gone ; at least, I think not’
‘Have you seen him to-day, reverend sir?’
‘Yes, I met him on the stairs.’
‘Shall we be going, Edith?’ asked Steinegge.
‘Well, no, father. I think the moment is hardly a
suitable one for me to call there. Do you go, and I will
stay with Don Innocenzo.’
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377
‘This is the eve of the ist of May,* remarked the
latter.
‘Very well, I will come to church.*
Steinegge did not like going alone, but he gave way
and went. Marta went back to the house with the cups
and saucers, leaving the priest and Edith sitting on the
low wall.
* He IS a good man,* she exclaimed passionately. ‘ He
is a good man, far better than I am. And he is so fond
of you. He was most anxious to come here. It is a
most fortunate thing that he should be so attached to
you, in spite of your cloth. Only yesterday evening we
were talking about religion. I was saying that some
spirits naturally act as mediators between mankind and
God, whatever course their life on earth may take, that
you, for example, even if your reverence were not a
priest — *
‘ Oh, my dear young lady.*
‘ Yes, yes, you are such an one. I am glad to believe
it, and to say it. If you only knew what need we have
of you. My father said he believed that what I have
just said is true.*
Her emotion was as strong as it had been
sudden.
‘ Set your mind at rest,* said Don Innocenzo. ‘ Per-
haps your father is nearer to God than many who serve
in His ministry, than myself, for instance, who have ever
lived a placid life, free from care, without any real trials,
performing no good works, with frequent lapses of zeal.
And this although, each day of my life, I approach the
mysteries of God, although I live, one may say, in the
warmth of so many noble souls which have loved Him,
I am practically worthless. But there is an element of
truth in what you have said. It is that an unselfish in-
MALOMBRA
37S
terest, even in an unworthy person, even in so-called in-
animate nature, elevates the mind. It gives the mind
a wider outlook ; it may even see the goal towards which
it is travellmg; not the way thither, but it will see the
goal Your worthy father is fond of me, I know not
why. There is no tie of blOod, or force of habit, or
common interest. We have not even that community of
ideas which is the usual basis of friendship, though it
often — do not you think so — introduces a shade of
egotism. His affection for a poor, worthless creature
like myself removes his thoughts from that angry re-
sentment which, in my opinion, is the most serious
obstacle to his return to the Church and to God.
As long as he finds pleasure in my company, I am
sure that, though from no merit of mine, a certain
measure of peace fills his heart ; and if he does think
of what he has endured in the past, it will strike him
as farther off than it was. He will go on working.
We shall attmn our end, you will see. At the same
time, you were very wise not to insist, not to press
him too much, and not to annoy him with excess of
zeal’
‘Poor father!’ said Edith, with a sigh. She pictured
him with his good, honest face, saw him happy and con-
tented, far from suspecting the melancholy secrets hidden
in the heart of his child.
‘ Has he ever spoken to you of religious observances ? ’
asked Don Innocenzo.
‘Never directly,’ replied Edith, quietly. ‘How can
he ? Confession, for example. He holds it in detesta-
tion. When I go to church he always accompanies me.
Recently I have been twice to confession. I go there
rarely now.’
‘ I cannot blame you 1 ’ said Don Innocenzo.
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m
‘ He did not mention the subject, either the first or the
second time,* Edith continued, ‘but he was distressed
I could see that, and for some time afterwards he was in
low spirits and said little, I can read his thoughts.
Poor father ! You cannot imagine the bad companions
he has had. They have not spoilt his kind disposition,
but they have filled his mind with so many wretched
cynical ideas.’
The sacristan came into the garden, and asked for
the keys of the church. Don Innocenzo took leave
of Edith, who remained seated on the little wall.
As soon as she was alone, she felt herself seized
with a profound sense of melancholy. She had loved,
and had sacrificed her love, but only then did she
feel that she had lost SiUa for ever, only then when
she heard that he had returned to the castle, to
Marina. A few minutes later, from the church still
warm with the rays of the setting sun, the bells rang
out. To Edith they seemed to say, ‘Farewell, love,
farewell, sweet love ; farewell, youth and happiness.’
She rose and went indoors ; but even there the sound of
the bells, although more faintly, entered. ‘Farewell, fare-
well.* Edith went upstairs to her room. The window
was open, and the bells repeated, more loudly than ever,
‘ Farewell.* Between the white curtains could be seen,
in the west, the evening star. Edith did not wish to get
sentimental ; she went to her father’s room, and then felt
more at ease. She closed the window without know-
ing why. Then she began to brush one of his coats,
carefully examining all the buttons ; then she folded up
the coat and laid it down on a chair. She arranged
the pillows on his bed, and smoothed and turned down
the sheets with the tender care of a mother making up a
bed for an invalid child. Then she stood and looked
MAL03fBRA
3S0
at the bright star, peacefully this time, and heard Marta
calling to her from the garden.
Marta wished to know whether she was going to church,
because, if so, they could go together.
They joined the small throng of women who were
walking up from the village, their heads covered by large,
dark handkerchiefs, and who entered the quiet church
one after the other, dipped the right hand in the holy
water, and making a reverence to the high altar, dis-
appeared to the right and left among the darkness of the
pews. Don Innocenzo soon appeared in surplice and
stole, and read the prayers to the Virgin, interspersing a
good many Raters and aves,
Edith would have liked to follow the prayers from her
heart, and could not do so ; they were so pompous, and
so false, and so insipid. She was astonished that Don
Innocenzo could find nothing more worthy of the pure
spint of the Virgin, the Christian personification of das
ewig Wdbliche, Don Innocenzo had indeed endeavoured,
in time past, to introduce some prayers of his Own, much
more simple and severe ; but their old prayers, which had
been in use for generations, were more popular with the
people. The bigots, male and female, of the village,
made such a religious war, persecuted the poor curate so
till he restored the thrones, the royal mantles, the crown
of stars, that he was obliged to give way.
Edith did not feel, when service was over, as if she was
going away with thoughts of church and of devotions.
She was once more at the Horror; she heard Marina ask
her about Silla, speak of her cousin and of his matrimonial
schemes ; heard her say, ‘ If in the future you hear people
speak about me, say things against me, remember this
evening. ' Then she was walking along the fortifications at
Milan with Silla ; heard him speak of Marina, read the
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381
dedication of A Dream : ‘ If he is repelled by her, he will
let himself fall never to rise again.* A new hght explained
everythmg. She roused herself from her retrospect, and
bending over a chair, with closed eyes, she abandoned
herself in heartfelt prayer to God.
But she could not continue. Her first thoughts again
took possession of her and carried her away ; they had
only yielded temporarily to her effort of will. During this
inward struggle she ceased to hear the voice of Don
Innocenzo, and the solemn murmur of the responses in
the dark church ; she did not hear the chanting of the
litany which issued softly through the open door and
mingled with whispers of the evening breeze. A hand
was laid on her shoulder ; it was her father’s.
* I have just come back,’ he whispered. ‘ Would you
like me to stay with you for a httle ? *
* Oh, yes, father. Sit down, you must be tired.’
She sat^ down herself and took one of his hands in
hers.
Steinegge was silent for a moment, then he said
timidly, —
‘ Is service over ? ’
‘Yes, father,’
‘ Cannot we say a prayer together ? ’
She pressed his hand.
‘Say somethmg,’ he said.
‘Let us think of mother,’ replied Edith. ‘May she
ask God to bestow His grace and His peace upon us
always. As we forgive those who have trespassed against
us. Do we not, father ? All of them ? ’
Steinegge did not reply \ his hand trembled.
‘ Say yes, father. We are so happy,’
‘Oh, Edith, let us say only those who have injured
me/
3S2
MALOMBRA
‘All, father, all of them/
‘I will do what I can,* he said.
The church was empty. The sacristan had already
locked the side door and Don Innocenzo was walking
towards the main entrance. The Steinegges rose and
went out with him. Edith stopped for an instant in the
porch.
‘ How beautiful it is 1 * she said.
The sky was clear, broken only by the sharp outlines
of the moimtains and of the hills away in the west, where
the bright evening star was setting. There was a fresh
breeze. Behind the church, on the mountain, could be
heard the rustling of the trees. The valley looked like a
large, dark cloth clumsily laid out at the feet of the
shining stars.
* A pity that there is no moon,* remarked Steinegge.
Edith replied that she sometimes liked the colder star-
light better than the moon. Her idea was that the moon,
our small satellite, which was at one time perhaps joined
to our planet, encourages some earthly passions and
softens men’s hearts ; whereas the stars, in their austere
indifference, exalt our minds. Such was her idea, but
she did not say so. She only remarked to Don Innocenzo
that, this evening, Venus’s light was strong enough to cast
shadows on the white walls of the church.
‘She is like the moon,’ she added, ‘very soft, but I
think more spiritual.*
She regarded everything, in her present mood, from
the religious point of view, even the wind behmd the
church.
‘ What news from the castle?* asked Don Innocenzo,
who had to visit a sick girl.
‘A little better, he seems a little better ; the danger to
the lungs seems to have passed away,’
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3^5
* Oh, Edith, what a house, what a house ! ’ exclaimed
Steinegge, after Don Innocenzo had gone away.
*Oh!’
He took three big strides forward, gesticulating with
his hands.
Edith said nothing on the way back.
* I thought you were never coming,’ said Marta, open-
ing the door. ‘ How is he ? ’
‘A little better. Shall we take another little turn,
Edith?’
She assented. Instead of taking the direct road to the
village, they followed the rough track which follows the
garden wall, and then takes a slanting line till it joins the
high road, a few hundred yards from the village.
Steinegge gave an account of his visit to the castle,
where he had seen Countess Fosca and Giovanna. The
former, instead of wishing him good evening, had ex-
claimed, ‘ Well, if there isn’t that other man back now 1
But on hearing that he was the guest of the curate sho
had become very cordial. Steinegge had not under-
stood one-third of what she said about the melancholy
event, or of her lamentations over the utter confusion
that reigned at the castle. Marina, according to the
Countess, was inconsolable, and hardly ever left her
apartments. About the wedding she did not say a word,
but Giovanna had made up for her silence. The latter,
poor woman, wan and tearful, had aroused his pity.
Her one thought was the Count, and what impressions
his illness would leave on his mind if he recovered.
Giovanna would have liked the wedding to take place at
once, and that everybody should leave the castle. Accord-
ing to her, the Countess and Count Nepo aimed simply at
getting the Count’s money. They had already inquired
whether he had made a will.
MALOMBRA
3S4
‘But there is one thing which distresses me even
more than all this,’ added Steinegge; ‘I have seen
SiUa.’
Edith said nothing.
‘ Oh, it seemed curious to see him there. He appeared
surprised, too, but he avoided me \ hardly said good even-
ing, and did not even ask after you.’
‘There was no necessity for him to ask after me.’
‘But we were old friends! It would have only been
natural. I am afraid I know too much, Edith. I fear
— ^you win understand what it is I fear. On the other
hand, that evening at Milan, he seemed to have quite got
over it when he spoke of the wedding. Is that not so ?
I think I mentioned it before?’
‘ Yes, yes, I know, father. Where are we walking to ?
I don’t like this road.’
They had come out on to the high road. It was very
dark. Venus had disappeared j from the bottom of the
valley the wind carried towards them the faint croaking
of frogs, the dank scent of wet meadows,
‘ Let us turn to the left,’ said Steinegge, ‘ and go back
through the village and past the church.’
They slowly approached the village, arm-in-arm. Edith
was talking about her beloved Germany and her past life
there. She was ever recalling some fresh memory of her
girlhood, more especially at such times as this. Her
father was always affected by her recollections, and still
more so by the thought that the unhappy years were
over, and that she was by his side.
In the village they met Don Innocenzo, who was just
coming out of a poor cottage. They heard a woman,
who was showing him the path with a lantern, say to him
in piteous tones, —
* Is it really true, your reverence? ’
PEACE 38s
‘Take courage, Maria,’ replied Don Innocenzo, ‘she
returns to the Lord who gave her.’
The woman laid her head against the wall and wept.
‘You had better go indoors, Maria,’ said Don Inno-
cenzo, softly.
The woman continued to cry, and did not stir.
‘ Take comfort,’ said Edith ; ‘ we will pray for you.’
She turned at the sound of the strange voice, and
replied, as though she already knew Edith, —
‘ Come indoors with me, come and see how beautiful
she is.’
Don Innocenzo objected to this at first, but Edith
wished to please the poor woman and went with her to
see the sick child. In the kitchen two little girls were
playing together, seated on the floor. Their father, bend-
ing over the fire, was warming up a cup of coffee, he
did not turn round to welcome, or even to look at, the
stranger, but said roughly to his wife, —
‘ Am I to take it to her? ’
‘ Oh, gracious Lord ! ’ cried the wretched woman. In
a broken voice her husband uttered a few angry words,
and sat down gloomily before the fire.
The sick girl was a fair, delicate little creature, about
twelve years old, who was peacefully passing away, while
believing that she was getting better.
A few minutes later Edith rejoined her father and
Don Innocenzo, who were waiting for her in the road.
‘It should make us ashamed,’ she said, ‘of all our
little petty sorrows.*
Neither of the three said a word on their way back.
Steinegge, feeling tired, went to bed, and Don Inno-
cenzo retired to his study to read evening prayers.
Edith went to the kitchen to have a consultation with
Marta on such vital questions of domestic economy as
MALOMBRA
the prices of sugar and coffee, the best methods of
cooking tomatoes and pickling capers, and which was
the best and cheapest canvas. After half an hour's
tife-driife, Edith left the kitchen and knocked gently at
the study door.
Don Innocenzo did not expect her visit ; he asked
her, smiling, whether anything had happened. She
replied, —
‘ No i I only wished to speak to you.'
The priest saw at a glance that the subject was
serious, and assumed a serious air.
* Pray be seated,' he said, half rising and pointing to a
chair. Then he waited in silence.
Some minutes passed before she began to speak. Don
Innocenzo began to look attentively at his escritoire,
and to remove with his little finger, and lightly blow
away, an imaginary speck of dust.
At last, without any preamble, she narrated what her
father had told her about Silla's passion for Marina,
prior to his flight from the castle; and mentioned
Marina's strange bearing and strange talk on the way
back from the Horror, and of her own consternation at
bearing, that same evening, of Marina's engagement to
Salvador. In a somewhat shaky voice she went on to
speak of her walk with^ Silla, and his ostentation of
indifference at the approaching marriage. She added,
after overcoming an inward repugnance to mention the
subject, that her suspicion as to Silla's feelings towards
herself had been confirmed. He had not declared
himself in so many words, but by his general bearing ;
and she feared that she had indirectly encouraged him.
Hiding her face in her hands, she added that she deeply
regretted her conduct, and was now being punished
for it
PEACE 387
* Dear me,' said Don Innocenzo, in great embarrass-
ment. * Dear me . • . I hardly know — '
Then came an account of Siila's visit next day, her
cold reception of him, and the words written in his book.
Here Don Innocenzo started, guessing, too late, the
inference to be drawn from Edith's story. She mentioned
her father’s recent meeting with Silia, and the impres-
sion it had made on him. She feared that there was
some sad mystery at the castle, and reproached herself
with having encouraged, through lack of vigilance, a
suit, the rejection of which had, perhaps, driven Silla to
dishonourable courses.
' I have felt,’ she added, * that I ought to tell you all
this, because it may be well for you to know how things
stand when you go to the castle, however much I may
personally be to blame.’
Don Innocenzo gently rubbed his hands, pursing up
his lips as though they pained him.
‘I do not really see,’ he said, ‘what blame can
attach — ^
And yet a certain chill had fallen upon him. He
kept repeating vague phrases to himself, like one who
does not clearly see his way. He asked Edith what kind
of man Silla was. She said that he had a noble stature,
which had been warped by the disappointments of his
life.
‘ And you think that he was attached to you ? ’
Edith did not reply.
‘But you, on your side, did not return his feeling,
and it was only by a misapprehension that Signor Silla
cherished the hopes he did? ’
‘No, I fear not; not by a misapprehension.’ She
uttered these words almost in a whisper, and hid
face in her hands upon the writing-table. ^
MALOMBRA
Don Innocenzo gazed silently at the fair young hair
with its golden gleam. This discovery pained him
He was pained to discover passion where he had im-
agined there was only peace ; he was pained to see the
beautiful head bowed in grief. In bygone years, during
the long evenings which he used to pass reading and
meditating in his little room, other pictures of modest,
pensive women had risen before his eyes, from the
saintly books. The hoarse tick of the clock seemed
to say to him, ‘Do you remember?' And now, after
many years, his imagination had found living embodi-
ment in the figure before him, which was no more
dangerous for him than for an innocent child. He
was grieved to see her wounded, because there was in
her something of his own spotless boyhood, something
of the high ideals of womanhood which he had then
reverently contemplated.
Edith raised her face and covered it with her hands.
‘ I fear,' she said, ‘ that I did not do all I might have
done to conceal my true feelings.'
‘But if this young man is a fine character, and was
fond of you, and if you yourself, pardon me, if, in your
words, you yourself — But, then, why did it end thus ? '
Her hands fell from her face, and two bright eyes wet
with tears met the priest’s.
‘ Oh, how could you think of that, you who know all?
How could I have done that while my father has such
need of me ? To place another duty, perhaps a stronger
duty, alongside my duty as his child ! Is that what I
came to Italy for? That is not the life I am called to, I
am convinced of that.’
‘Are you really convinced?' said Don Innocenzo,
gravely. ‘ Do you understand how great a sacrifice you
propose to make?'
PEACE
389
‘No,' said Edith, clasping her hands, ‘don’t sa7 that,
don’t say that ! What I do is nothing in comparison to
what I owe my father. Thus may God grant that he
will return to the faith ! Meanwhile, I am glad that he
suspects nothing ; as for me, I can forget. You must
help me ! ’
Poor old priest, to help to combat love! In the
goodness and ingenuousness of his heart Edith’s sacrifice
appeared to him unreasonable. If this man was a fine
character, if he loved her, surely he would also love, with
filial affection, her father, and would assist in the holy
work which Edith had set before her.
‘ Is it necessary ? ’ he said. ‘ Is it really useful, this
sacrifice of yours? Let us consider well. It may be
that your father desires to see you settled in hfe, that
this thought causes him secret anxieties. Another point,
Do you blow how many means exist of bringing back a
soul to the faith? Perhaps within the limits of one
Christian family there are more than you are able to
imagine. I speak of the future. As to what is past you
may set your mind at rest. If any disaster should occur,
no blame can fall upon you. No, none whatever, be-
lieve me. Even assuming that you have shown signs of
— of — sympathy with this gentleman, you will still never
be responsible before God for dishonourable acts of
his.’
‘ No,’ she said, ‘yet it would be a great grief to me.’
Don Innocenzo was silent, he was seeking for words
which would not come. Again other thoughts, suggested
by Edith’s narrative, troubled him considerably; the
suspicion of a sinister plot, a doubt whether he ought not
to take some action, perhaps speedily, to combat the de-
signs attributed by Edith to Marina, of which Marina
herself gave a hint when she spoke of a friend of hers,
390
MALOMBJ^A
who had married out of pique so as to reach her lover
through her husband.
‘Speak to me quite frankly,’ he said suddenly; ‘are
you convinced, or not, that there is an understanding
between Signor Silla and Donna Marma? Have no
scruples ; this is not a question of scandal or of judging
others, as condemned by the Gk>spel. My office might be
usefully called into play, and I ought to know, as far as
possible, the truth. You, who know the persons and the
facts, tell me frankly what is the understanding.’
‘ Two days ago they had no definite one,’ replied Edith,
‘ but now I fear they have.’
‘ What do you mean ? They have agreed on something? ’
* I fear that they will ; I have that presentiment.’
* You fear that they will,’ said Don Innocenzo, talking
to himself, and leaning one elbow on the escritoire, with
the palm of his hand against his forehead, and the fingers
tapping restlessly on the top of his head. After reflect-
ing for some lime he opened a drawer and took out some
writing-paper.
‘ You have never replied,’ he said, * to the words which
Signor Silla wrote on that book for you.’
^ No, reverend father.’
‘ Eh ? ’ asked Don Innocenzo. Perhaps she had had
a presentiment of what the curate was about to suggest,
in so low a tone did she speak,
‘ No, I have not replied.’
The priest rose to his feet.
‘ Well, reply now,’ he said.
Edith involuntarily got up too ; she understood, with-
out more explanation, Don Innocenzo’s idea.
‘ Quick,’ said the latter, drawing the inkstand near to
the paper which he had placed on the escritoire.
Edith clasped her hands.
PEACE
m
* Do you think that it is my duty ? And at once ? ’
‘Yes, I do. My duty will be to judge if, and how, the
letter is to be handed over. Take my chair.* Edith sat
down in silence, took up the pen firmly and looked at the
curate.
His eyes, beneath the lofty forehead, assumed a solemn
expression.
‘ I do not know much about those things,' he said in
an agitated tone, ‘ but I have always had the idea that
instead of a bond of passion, sanctified or not, there
might be, between two truly strong and noble natures,
another bond, orie of affection holy m itself; a love,
to use that great word, m perfect conformity with the
Christian ideal of the close union of all human souls in
their journey towards God. I may observe that there is
on earth nothing more lovely than such a union,
although the conjugal union is sacred and has a deep
significance. You wish to make this sacrifice for your
father's sake; be it so; but why root out from your
heart even the memory of him you loved? Why re-
nounce a life-giving sentiment which leads you to desire
the temporal and eternal welfare of this person as much
as your own? Why should not he entertain a similar
feeling towards you, so that both, in the knowledge of this
mutui feeling, may pursue your different paths in life, and
fulfil your respective duties, fortified by the great secret
buried in your hearts ? Write accordingly, write accord-
ingly.*
‘You are a saint,* said Edkh. But on her face and in
her voice there was a melancholy lut ‘ I fully realise,’ she
added, ‘ the beauty of such a union, but would it satisfy
him ? Would he not press his wishes upon me all the
more strongly? would he not make me venture on some
painful step ? *
392
MALOMBRA
Don Innocenzo felt mortified. He felt that his
knowledge of the world was so much smaller than hers
that he was not able to continue the discussion;
yet he remained convinced of the correctness of his
views.
‘Be it so/ he said with a sigh ; ‘write as you will, if
only a few words to cheer him up.’
She said nothing, and began to reflect, sitting with the
pen in her hand looking at the moon. The curate
opened the window and rested his arms on the window-
sill. The stars looked down on him and said he was
right, but the dark earth said that he was wrong.
After a few minutes Edith called to him, and held out,
open, the letter which she had written.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I will not read it; only let me know
whether they are words which will appeal to him.’
‘Ob, Don Innocenzo,’ exclaimed Edith, in pleading
tones, ‘I have written, I have done as you desired.
Read it if you wiU, but do not ask me any more
questions, do not pursue the subject further.’
‘ Come, come, be of good courage, remember that our
Saviour tells us not to abandon ourselves to despair ; and
go and take some rest, for it is late.’
Before going to her own room, Edith listened at her
father’s door, which stood ajar. He was asleep. For
her there could be no pleasanter, no more pathetic sound
than that of his quiet breathing, peaceful as a child’s.
She put her candle in her own room, and turned back
again, resting her forehead against the woodwork of his
door, listenmg, seeking for peace and strength, of which
she was in need.
At that moment the passing hours fell one by one in
heavy strokes from the bell-tower, striking with their
deep solemn sound on the roof, on the stairs, along the
PEACE
393
echoing floors of the sleeping house. Edith raised her
head and counted them timidly, as though they were
blows dealt upon an iron gate by some formidable and
unexpected visitor.
It was half-past tern
CHAPTER IV
A FORMIDABLE VISITOR
SiLLA, who was lying stretched out on the grass,
suddenly sat up and counted the hours. Half-past ten.
He knew that it must be half-past ten ; he had looked
at his watch two minutes before, for the hundredth time.
He plucked convulsively at the grass and pulled out two
handfuls. Marina had said : after eleven o’clock. He
let his arms fall listlessly, bowed his neck, and fell
together as though some enormous foot were trampling
on his shoulders. At that moment he reflected, in a dull,
cold, sluggish way, on the act of disloyalty which he con-
templated beneath the roof of a friend lying dangerously
ill; he thought of past resolves, of the alternation of
defeats and victories, and above all, of his old sinister
presentiment of one final, hopeless fall, of a horrible
abyss waiting for him, he knew not at what turning-
point of his life, in which he would lose himself, body
and soul, for ever. He felt, without alarm, that he had
reached the spot and had one foot over the yawning
void.
A fierce energy coursed through his veins, all thought
was blotted out from his mind, except the thought that
the hour was rapidly approaching.
He had been there for an hour, at the same place as
on the evening before, on the grass of the vineyard, close
to a cypress. Those five endless hours after dinner,
394
A l^ORMIDABLE VISITOR
395
which seemed as though they would never pass, had
come to an end, vanished like a moment. He looked at
his watch ; it wanted twenty-five minutes to eleven.
Should he go to meet her? Should he wait there?
He felt irritated that his blood did not burn with fiercer
desire. His brain and nerves were tortured by the
feverishness of waiting j that was all Possibly the
meeting with Steinegge — ? No, he did not care to
think of him.
He rose and put his arm round the thick stem of the
cypress, and, shutting his eyes, pretended to listen ; he
revelled, over and over again, in the whisper which, in
his imagination, slowly travelled towards him, and felt a
perfumed breath, and two httle hands which clasped his
and drew him upwards into the darkness. She went
whirling up the steps and he followed her, neither saying
a word, but their clasped hands spoke a language so in-
expressibly sweet and clear that the lovers breathed fast
in the rapture of their madness ; and —
He gave the cypress a violent push and sprang on one
side. He looked at his watch ; it was a quarter to
eleven. Leaving the vineyard he stepped on to the
flight of steps which he slowly descended on tip-toe,
holding his breath, standing still at every sound which
mingled with the murmur of the fountains. Having
reached the court he halted for a moment. No light, no
sound issued from the gloomy castle. Turning to the
right, close under the wall, beneath the waving tendrils
of the passion flowers and jessamine, he pushed open
the door of the boat-house and stepped into the dark-
ness. All that could be seen was, on the left, the
bottom of the flight of steps and, in the body of the
boat-house, the dim undulations of the water which every
now and then lapped quietly against the boats. Then it
396 MALOMBRA
suddenly flashed across Silla that perhaps that rendezvous
might turn out differently from what he had imagined,
that perhaps Marina did not care for him, that it was
only one of her strange caprices. Did she wish to make
a laughing-stock of him and leave him there all night ?
He sat down on the stone steps, and looking through
the round window high up in the wall saw a patch of
sky, the top of a cypress, and one pale star.
It wanted seven minutes to eleven. His watch was
two mmutes fast by the church clock. By the latter it
must be nine minutes to eleven. He reflected that when
it was eleven o’clock by his watch he would still have
two minutes to wait, two endless, miserable minutes.
Just then above his head, in the depths of the castle,
from some big clock faster than the others, he heard the
deep clang of the hours striking. For Donna Marina it
was eleven o’clock. He rose and went up the steps
until he was out of the light which fell from the little
round window. Resting his hands on the walls on each
side of the steps he leant forward and listened.
Silence.
The slight creak of an opened door made him hold
his breath. Then followed the muffled sound of cautious
steps, and he heard a voice — ^no, not a voice, a rapid
whisper —
^ Renato ! ’
Silla sprang forwards, but his foot slipped. A minute
afterwards he heard himself called again, in a louder
tone, —
‘ Renato ! ’
The voice sounded and yet did not sound like that of
Donna Marina. He stepped back. Then he heard the
rustle of a dress rapidly descending the steps, then all
was still again.
^ FORMIDABLE VISITOR
397
‘ Silla ! Silla ! ’ said Donna Marina.
It was she ; he could not see her, but he felt that she
was standing opposite to him, a few steps off.
‘I am not Renato,* he said, without moving, ‘Ah,
you don't remember the name ? Give me your
hand ! '
She moved rapidly towards him and almost fell into
Silk’s arms ; he pressed her to him, nearly lifting her
from the ground.
‘Was it true?’ she said, in a faint voice, her lips
touching his neck* ‘ Was what you said to me last night
true?’
Silk did not reply. He pressed her more closely to
him, and as he kissed her shoulder felt his cheek pressed
against another cheek as soft as velvet, and a warm little
ear.
‘ Was it true ? ’ repeated Marina, tenderly.
It was impossible for him to hold that haughty beauty
in his arms, with her heart beating against his, to breathe
the perfume of her dress, and to hear the faint voice at
his ear, and not lose all self-possession. Silk with diffi-
culty whispered, —
‘ And you love me ? ’
‘ God ! since how long ago ! ’ replied Marina.
Then, as if by a sudden inspiration, she suddenly re-
leased herself from Silla’s embrace, and laid her hands
on his shoulders,
‘ So you do not remember all ? ’ she said.
He did not understand, and replied at hazard, wildly,
holding out his arms.
‘ All^ — everything ! ’
‘Even Genoa?’
The strange words passed unnoticed by Silla, who re*
peated impatiently, —
MALOMBRA
39S
* Everything — everything ! *
Marina seized hold of his hands and forcibly joined
them together.
* Give thanks to God ! ’ she said.
This time the dread name seemed to go through him
like cold steel. He remained stupefied, with joined
hands. Marina also remained silent for a few minutes,
believing that he was silently praying, then she slipped
her right hand under his arm, and whispered, ‘Now, let
us be going,’ and turned to ascend the flight of steps.
He followed her slowly, mechanically, keeping one
step behind her.
They came to a landing where the steps turned to the
right.
‘ Come,’ said Marina, letting go his arm and putting
her own round his waist. Then she placed her lips
against his ear and whispered into it.
Forgetting her recent unintelligible utterances, he
turned blindly towards her, and replied.
‘Quietly,’ she said, placing her left hand on his lips.-
Pushing open a door, she entered a passage, holding
Silla’s hand in hers, and led the way, walking cautiously,
dose to the wall. Suddenly she stood still to listen, be-
lieving she heard footsteps and voices. The voices came
from the floor below ; from the passage near the Count’s
room.
She took no further notice of it and went on. He
heard her hand touch a door handle and turn it. A
flood of light streamed into the passage ; a perfume of
roses surrounded Silla. They went in.
It was the room of the old-fashioned escritoire.
Lighted candles stood on the top of the escritoire, on
the piano, on a low bookcase. Through the open door
of the bedroom came a feeble gleam of light- Large
A FORMIDABLE VISITOR * 399
bunches of bluebells and of white and yellow roses were
scattered about the room.
Marina stepped quickly into the light, drew Silla after
her, shut the door and turned the key all in an instant.
Her eyes were sparkling with laughter; her neck and
wrists flashed with gold ; her dress was gleaming white.
Leaving Silla, she sprang towards the piano, and
before he could get her away from it, began to play,
with demoniacal fire, the sicihana in * Roberto il DiavoloJ
* I defy them > ' she said, allowing herself to be led
away. * I defied them frankly yesterday evening, didn't
I ? and they didn't understand.'
Silla was expecting that somebody, on hearing the
piano, would come up.
Marina shrugged her shoulders and, releasing her
hand from his, threw herself into a big arm-chair.
‘ Here,’ she said, motioning to him to sit on the floor
beside her. * And now, all your reminiscences ? '
Silla did not answer.
‘ The ball first of all,' began Marina. ‘ Don't you under-
stand ? The Dona ball I ’ and she stamped impatiently.
‘ I do not understand,' he said.
Marina at once rose from her seat.
* Did you not tell me that you remembered ? ’
There was within him an evil spirit that was irritated
by these frivolous questions. He did not care whether
he understood them or not. Taking her hands in his
ice-cold hands, he forced her back into her chair and
leant over her as he replied, —
*I know nothing; I remember nothing. I have never
had any existence other than the present one. All that
I knew was that this moment would come. I am
minded to enjoy it.’
He experienced the giddy sensation of descending
400
MALOMBRA
into a great bottomless abyss, and he longed eagerly to
go headlong to lower depths, to rise no more.
‘Don’t hold my hands,’ said Marina, endeavouring to
release them. ‘ I will not have it,’ she exclaimed, as he
took no notice. So haughty was her utterance and her
glance that Silla obeyed. Rising to her feet, she slowly
walked away from him, with head bowed. Suddenly
she turned round and stamped on the floor.
‘ Think ! Just think ! ’ she said.
A shudder ran through Silla and chilled him to the
bone. A vague, temble presentiment came over him.
Manna, speaking rapidly, said, —
‘Why did you call me Cecilia that evening? ’
‘Because I had discovered that you were the Cecilia
of the letters.
She reflected for a moment, and then said calmly, —
‘That is just what I thought. But yesterday even-
ing,’ and she continued with her former impetuosity,
‘and only a few minutes ago, why did you tell me you
remembered everything?’
‘ Because I believed you were talking about our corre-
spondence, and the moment when I held you in my
arms down there near the boat-house.’
She sat down at the escritoire and got out the manu-
script, and after burying herself for a few minutes in the
perusal of the old faded papers, she suddenly rose to
her feet.
‘I will tell you a secret which concerns you also,’
she said, and put out first the two candles on the escri-
toire, and then those on the bookcase, quietly and with-
out saying a word, as though the lights were alive and
could hear. Only through the open door of the bed-
room came a feeble glimmer, which fell on the floor and
on the nearest pieces of furniture.
A FORMIDABLE VISITOR
401
Marina caught hold of Silk’s arm, and leading him
into the darkest corner of the room, near the passage
door, whispered to him, —
‘ You do not know who I am.’
He did not answer, for he did not understand ; that
vague presentiment came over him again, and filled him
with dread.
‘Do you remember that evening in the loggia, the
lady whom you accused, about whom I was angry ? ’
Silk still remained silent.
‘ Don’t you remember the Countess Varrega
d’Ormengo ? ’
‘ Yes,’ he said, suddenly pretending to remember, and
anxiously waiting for Marina to explain herself.
But she only laid her head on his shoulder and
sobbed bitterly, murmuring three words which Silk did
not catch. He turned his head, and touchmg her hair
with his lips, begged her to say them again.
‘I am she,’ she said, still sobbing. An involuntary
movement, a smothered cry of pain, made her start.
She stepped back and exclaimed, —
‘ So you think that I am — ’
‘ Oh, no ! ’ interposed Silla.
The word, not uttered only guessed, seemed to ring
through the room.
‘ What low creatures you all are ! ’
The time had been when no one could have called
Corrado Silla low, but that time had passed, and he felt
the fact acutely.
‘You wrote to me,’ continued Marina, ‘that you be-
lieved in a previous existence. What sort of belief was
yours ? It was a fantasy, not a belief. I tell you, it is
the truth, ^d you are frightened and think me mad ? Who
told you, "mean-spirited cur, to pky the great man ? Go ! ’
402
MALOMBRA
One after another the insolent words cut him like a
whip, overwhelmed him with their vehement logic, irri-
tated him and filled him with a growing desire to hear
and know more. He plied her with eager questions,
and gradually passed from entreaty to disdain. She
repulsed him with the one hafd monosyllable.
‘Go» Gol’»
At length, however, she gave way.
‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘Let us walk about'
They walked slowly round the room, now passing
mto the light that came from the bedroom, now dis-
appearing in the darkness. Manna was talking fast and
in so low a tone that, to catch what she said, Silla had
to bend his ear down to her lips.
On his face, the first few times that they passed into
the light, there was a look of fevensh curiosity; but
after that" his eyes stared stonily. Marma talked with
one clenched hand pressed against her brow. All of a
sudden, in the dark part of the room, they stood still.
‘But what do you mean?' he asked. Marina did not
answer. A minute later they heard the click of a spring.
In a low tone he put another question. Marina went
to her room, and returned with a lighted candle, which
she placed on the escritoire. She also was deadly pale,
and her eyes had an expression of indescribable melan-
choly. Silla greedily seized the manuscript. Marina,
watching him fixedly, followed the sinister tale on his
silent lips, his knitted eyebrows, his trembling hands.
During that deathlike silence hurried footsteps were
heard more than once in the passage below, but neither
Silla nor Marina noticed them. From time to time
Silla gave a shudder, and read out a few words aloud,
and she would then place her forefinger on the manu-
script, bending over it, breathing heavily.
A FORMIDABLE VISITOR
403
‘ Do you remember this ? ’ he once asked her, reading
on.
‘All — everything,’ she replied. ‘Read here — read
loud.’
Silla read : ‘ They said that I should be born anew ;
that I should live again, here, between these walls ; that
here 1 should be avenged; that here I should love
Renato, and be loved by him ; they said something else
dark, incomprehensible, » illegible ; perhaps the name
which he will then bear.’
‘And you do not remember ? ’ she said, mournfully.
He did not hear her. He was under the spell of the
weird manuscnpt, and continued to read in silence.
One passage made him shudder, and he read it out
loud.
‘ Oh ! that at that moment I could rise from my bier
and speak.’
‘And I have spoken,’ said Marina. ‘The other
night, as though I had only just left my cofiSn, I killed
him.’
Silla did not heed her. He went on reading. As he
got to the words: ‘When, in the second life —
Marina snatched the manuscript out of his hand, and
taking his head tightly between her hands, pressed it
backwards.
‘And you did not believe,’ she said. ‘But I have
forgiven you because I love you, because God, I feel, so
wills it ; and because, besides, at first I did not believe
myself. This is where I knelt down. Like this.’
She fell on her knees, and rested her arms and her
head on the escritoire.
‘ I thought, and thought, and searched my memory.
Nothing. Then faith came to me like a lightning flash,
and I believed.’ She rose to her feet and laid a hand
404
MALOMBJ^A
on SilWs shoulder. And now, since a few days ago, I
remember ever57thing — every detail-
She paused and for an instant looked into his eyes,
then, resting her head on his breast, she whispered
tenderly, —
‘Do not you understand that I have been, that
my spirit has been, in the tomb for many, many years,
I know not how many, before it was released from that
other, that horrible thing ? Speak to me of love ; you
see how much I have suffered. I hope that you will
remember too. My lips are at your heart. I would
gaze into it and help you in your search. And I loved
you at once — do you know that ? — at first sight.’
Silla’s faculties were still under the spell of what he
had read, and of Marina’s delicate beauty, and the soft
voice even more voluptuous than her touch.
She raised her head. ‘ But I fought against it,’ she
said. ‘I must tell you all. I believed that Count
Caesar had sent for you to marry me. I wished to hate
you. I could have eaten my heart out, for, whenever I
saw or heard you, it beat faster. Ah, that evening in
the boat, after your haughty, insolent speech, if you had
only ventured 1 When you took me back to the little
chapel — ’
‘ To the boat-house,’ he said mechanically.
She made a movement of impatience.
‘No! to the chapel. Don’t you remember? When
you took me back there, and left me, uttering my former
name, I fell like one dead. Then I recovered con-
sciousness and understood. I said to myself, “ It is he ;
it will be he. Sooner or later, in spite of everything, in
spite of everyone, it will be he — here.” Then the
Salvadors come for me. You know that they are
related to the D’Ormengo family ? Well, then, God — for
A FORMIDABLE VISITOR
405
it is God’s will which is flashing through this affair, God
made me see the Dendetta which He was sending. Listen.
The very evening on which the marriage-contract was
signed, though after I had said yes^ I had an hour of
terrible despondency. I knew that you were Lorenzo.
The wedding was fixed for the 29 th of April. I wrote
to Paris ; no, not to Paris, to Milan. How I mix up
names ! I wanted to know a thousand things about
you. But you never went near the lady. Meanwhile,
the 29th of Apnl was drawing near. When I think how
cool and self-confident I was at first. I have not been
so lately. Every night I have had fever. I was going
to marry him, and then trample on him, for love of you ,
but you never came. I insisted on the wedding being
put off for a day. That night — what a night ’ — I raised
my hands to Heaven from my bed, and God touched
me here.’
She took one of Silla’s hands and laid it on her
forehead.
‘ God touched me here, and I saw what I ought to do
I went downstairs and spoke to him. The following
evening I sent off the telegram. And what did you
do?’
Silla, in his turn, felt that he was rapidly going mad.
The walls, the escritoire, Marina’s eyes, the solitary candle,
all danced round him in a giddy whirl. He bad had no
time to reply, for the bedroom door which opened on to
the passage resounded with loud knocks, and was then
forcibly pushed open. A face, that for many years had
not been seen at the castle, had returned there in the
depth of night, while Silla was waiting for Marina on the
steps, and Giovanna was watching at her master’s bed-
side, and the others were wrapped in the sweet sleep of
springtime — one dreaming of the bustling streets of
4o6
MALOMBRA
Milan, another of the quiet canals at Venice, another of
money, another of good dinners, another of Nina with
the snow-white arms. Every gate and every door had
opened before this visitor, with the silent, terrified
obeisance of servants surprised by the unexpected
return of their lord. He had gone upstairs till he
reached the bedroom of the Count, whispering to the
walls, as he glided along them, his dread name —
DEATH.
* Marchesina ! Marchesina 1 ’ exclaimed Fanny, as she
entered the room. She saw Silla, and was thunder-
struck. Silla disengaged ‘himself, and stepped back.
Marina, taken by surpnse for the moment, quickly re-
covered herself, and again took Silla by the hand, not
condescending to disguise the situation. To Fanny she
replied with an imperious —
* What is the matter ? '
* His lordship,’ replied Fanny.
‘Well?’
‘ He had another attack an hour ago, and now he is
dying ! They beg your ladyship to come down, and to
come quickly.’
Marina strode towards the girl,
‘ He is dying ? ’ she asked.
During the last three days Fanny had noticed the
curious look in her mistress’s eyes ; but never as at that
moment. She was frightened, and did not answer. She
stood near the door with a light in her hand, her hair ir
disorder, her neck bare, looking at Marina with wile
eyes still heavy with sleep,
‘Come,’ said Marina to Silla, and she dashed out
dragging him after her, Into the dark passage.
A FORMIDABLE VISITOR 407
The priest is down there,' said Fanny, speaking once
more.
Silla's first instinct was to offer resistance, to throw off
the strong hand that gripped his ; but a voice within him
cried out, ‘ Coward * Desert her now ? ' He followed
Marina. Fanny brought up the rear, holding the light
high above her head. She was dazed, and kept mutter-
ing to herself.
The very light seemed to be agitated, as though in the
dark passage it met the chill breath of death.
The light of another candle appeared on the staircase,
and somebody called out from below, —
‘ Miss Fanny, Miss Fanny * '
It was the footman, who was breathlessly mounting
the stairs candle in hand. Without taking any notice of
the other two, he asked Fanny whether she had a crucifix.
*No, no, in Giovanna's room, m Giovanna's room,'
Catte called out after him from below. Fanny burst
into tears, and the footman, with a gesture of annoyance,
went downstairs again and entered into a violent argu-
ment with Catte. A door opened in the distance, some-
body indignantly said ‘Hush,' and immediately after-
wards the doctor could be heard asking in a firm, loud
tone for, —
‘Ice!'
Whispering voices repeated hurriedly, —
‘ Ice, ice.’
Marina did not hurry now, she went downstairs very,
very slowly, alarmed in spite of herself. The shadows
the castle were full of terror ; those frightened voices,
^ose lights whose flickenng reflections were seen here
and there, increased it.^ Before she had reached the
passage on the floor below she saw Vezza and Mirovich
walking hurriedly along, bending forwards, without
4 o 8 MALOMBJRA
collars or ties. The gardener, who was bringing the ice
caught them up, jogging them with his elbow as he
passed m front of them. Suddenly the deep voice of
Don Innocenzo was heard, —
‘ JRe?iova in eo fiissime Pater^ quidquid terrena fragi-
litate — ’
Then the voice ceased. A door had been opened and
again closed.
As Marina and Silla stepped into the passage, followed
by Fanny, they saw Vezza and Mirovich open the door
of the Count’s room very gently and slip in ; and they
again heard, for an instant, the voice of Don Innocenzo.
‘ Commendo fe omnifotenti Deo^
Fanny gave a cry, put down the hght upon the floor,
and fled.
* Silly girl!’ said Marina. Then she whispered to
Silla,—
^The other night, as I was on my way to avenge
myself upon him, I fell down just here, at this very
hour. Did I not tell you that I had killed him ? ’
She took a step forward. But at that moment she
felt her waist encircled by Silla’s powerful hands, and he
lifted her bodily on to the staircase. In her amazement
she remamed silent for a moment, then, thinking that he
was going to kiss her, she said, smiling, —
‘ Afterwards ! ’
He did not speak.
‘Well, let me go^’
*No,’ replied Silla. It was no longer the amorous
voice of an hour ago, but that of one who suddenly sets
eyes on some scene of horror.
‘ What do you mean ? ’ she said, writhing and twisting
like a snake in the claw of a falcon. Then she suddenly
assumed a sinister calm.
A FORMIDABLE VISITOR
409
* Ah, that light there ? Who left it there? ’ said Catte
coming from the opposite direction, towards the Count’s
room. Another agitated voice repeated,
‘ Ave Maria^ Ave Maria,*
Fanny had placed the light on the first step. Catte
and Countess Fosca were passing by, and they looked
up the staircase and stood still. Silla, almost involun-
tarily, let go of Marina and she sprang down the stairs
and into the passage, under the astonished eyes of the
two women, passing on in front of them without a word.
Countess Fosca, who was closely wrapt up in a big black
shawl, looked at Silla, and her broad vulgar face lighted
up with an expression of stem dignity as she passed on
in silence. Silla stepped into the passage and saw her
enter the Count’s room with Catte. Not seeing Marina,
he understood that she must have already gone into the
room, and he madly struck his forehead with his clenched
fists. Then he hastily, on tiptoe, approached the door
of the dying man and listened.
‘ Suscipe Domine^* Don Innocenzo was saying, * servum
tuum in locum sperandc& sibi salvationis a misericordia
tua*
A deep voice, short and solemn as the note of an
organ, replied, —
* Amen,*
Silla caught hold of the door handle with the clutch
of a drowning man. The door was opened, and some-
one whispered, ‘ Come in.’
The light of a candle on the floor near the bed fell on
the white hanging folds of the sheets, on the brass
knobs of the bedstead, on the sphnters of ice scattered
about the floor ; and it threw across the room a big
shadow of Don Innocenzo as he stood near the dying
man, who was breathing heavily, rapidly, with a rattle in
410
MALOMBI^A
the throat. At the foot of the bed, in the half-light,
stood the doctor ; beside him knelt Giovanna, smothenng
her sobs in the coverlet Scattered about the large dark
room, kneeling, were Countess Fosca and her son, Vezza,
the servants, and the gardener. The latter and the
Count’s valet were weeping. Mirovich, old man of the
world, stood leaning against the wall in a corner. He
would gladly have gone away ; he remained out of regard
for the Countess.
Another person stood in the middle of the room, a
few paces from the door — Marina. The shining tip of a
little shoe, the white skirt with its blue embroidery, were
plainly visible ; her arms seemed to be folded ; of her
face nothing could be seen either by Countess Fosca,
Nepo, or Vezza, who were all watching her.
Don Innocenzo was repeating in a loud voice the
prayers commendationis animce^ with the book in his
hand, but without looking at it He did not seem to
notice either Marina or SxUa. His gaze rested on that
head with the open mouth and the closed eyes, covered
with ice, reposing on the left shoulder, cadaverous in
hue. He spoke in the accent of heartfelt prayer ; but when
he said: Jgnorantias ejus, qucBsumus, ne memineris^ Do7nine^
the words had a nobler and more pathetic ring ; they
seemed to express a passionate belief that God would
receive that soul into His rest, a soul which after doing
good upon earth without thinking of Him was about to
appear before Him, like one who steering steadily for a
known port comes upon new continents and glorious
scenes unknown. In that night of grief and timid
whisperings, the sacred, sonorous words addressed with
such deep faith to a Bemg assumed to be present, in-
viable, above the man struck down by Him, assumed to
be lord of him who spoke and of alj around him.
A FORMIDABLE VISITOR 4^1
whether believers or not, filled the room with dread.
They felt the presence of two superhuman powers ; one
luminous, eloquent, holy, tenacious, untiring; the other
mysterious, silent. What seemed marvellous was this,
that the former, whom the man lying there had not
known in life or in death, and whom he had offended
with expressions of indifference, or worse, had come in
his last hour without a prayer from him, from whom
neither good nor evil was now to be expected, in order
to shield and defend him and speak for him in the
coming dread ordeal. As the priest paused for a moment
the dying man was heard to breathe loud and rapidly,
as though a lion had sprung upon him. Suddenly the
rattle diminished.
‘ It is the end,’ said Don Innocenzo, turning towards
the others. Seeing Marina standing, he signed to her to
kneel, and then bent over the bed, and in a clear voice
repeated the final prayers.
Marina took two steps forwards ; the light from the
candle fell on the white face, the distended nostrils, the
knitted brows.
* Count Csesar ! ’ she said.
Every one started up in horror to look at her — all
except Don Innocenzo. The latter merely made a sign
to her with his left hand. She did not step back; did
not stir. Holding out her arms she pointed the two
forefingers, like two daggers, at the dying man, ex-
claiming, —
‘ Cecila is here — ’
An angry noise of smothered exclamations, a scraping
of chairs, a shuffling of many feet, filled the room. Don
Innocenzo turned round.
‘ Back ! ’ he said.
Nepo, Vezza and Mirovich took one step towards
412
MALOMBRA
the woman standing like a ghost in the middle of the
room.
‘ In the name of God take her away,’ sobbed Giovanna.
‘ It was she who killed him/
At that moment Manna flung back the arms with the
clenched hands, and bent her head and shoulders for-
wards. Neither of the three ventured to approach her,
or to check the hissing words,—
‘With her lover!—
Then Silla was seen to spring upon her, lifting her in
his arms.
‘ To see you die 1 ’ she cried, struggling in the air.
In another second there was a violent exit from the
room, Silla and Marina disappeared, the room was
^ain silent Nepo, Vezza and the advocate moved on
tiptoe towards the door.
‘ Nepo,’ said Countess Fosca, firmly, sotto voce. ‘ Here ! ’
He obeyed and went up to her. The other two left
the room.
‘ Count Caesar heard nothing,’ said Don Innocenzo,
taking the candle and placing it on the little table. ‘ He
sleeps in peace.’
The doctor approached, laid one hand on the Count’s
heart, drew out his watch, and said in a loud voice, —
‘Thirty-five minutes past one.’
Don Innocenzo immediately began the prayers for the
dead.
A voice at the door called to the doctor, who went
out. The servants also, by Nepo’s order, left the room,
with the exception of Giovanna, who knelt at her master’s
bedside, making, in a feeble, grief-stricken voice, the
responses. Nepo lighted two candles which stood on
the chest of drawers. The little flames, growmg larger
like two stupefied eyes, gradually showed to his covetous
A FOI^MIDABLE VISITOR 413
gSize the Count’s keys on the chest of drawers, Countess
Fosca a few paces off, and Mirovich, who came back
looking pale, and with an expression of fear of the thing
stretched out on the bed, on the left. He paused in the
doorway and looked at Nepo, frowning. The Countess,
on seeing him, burst into tears, and going up to him
took his arm, and with a courteous bow, he led her from
the room.
Taking the keys and a candle, Nepo quietly endea-
voured to open a chest which stood against the wall,
facing the bed, trying all the keys without success.
‘ Good heavens ! ’ said Giovanna, in distress and dis-
dain. Don Innocenzo stopped praying.
‘ Either pray or leave the room,’ he said.
But Nepo paid no heed. Bending over the chest and
turning the key, his long nose almost touching it, he
looked like a savage weasel curved over a hole, spying
out, scenting out its prey.
Don Innocenzo flushed with wrath.
‘ I will deal with him,’ he said.
He would have seized him and thrown him out of
the room, had not Giovanna plaintively restrained him.
‘ Let be,’ she said. ‘ Go on praying, go on praying,
do not desert him.’
Meanwhile Nepo had found the right key, had opened
the chest, and after a brief search had extracted a folded
document. He held it to the candle to read the endorse-
ment, burning his hair in doing so. Mirovich, entering
unnoticed at this moment, remarked sternly, —
‘ My business,’
‘ It should be read at once,' said Nepo, embarrassed
* I want to know where I am, in whose house.’
They went out together.
Even the prayers in ex^iratione were ended. Don
414
MALOMBRA
Innocenzo prayed on for a short time, and then said
farewell to Giovanna, who was speechless.
The poor old woman, left alone with her master, placed
the two lighted candles at the head of the bed, and
arranged the chairs scattered about the room, quietly, as
though the Count was sleeping. Then she sat down at
the bedside, ioobng at the crucifix which had been
placed on the dead man's breast. She had faithfully,
humbly, served the Count for forty years, receiving from
him words neither of reproof nor of regard, but feeling
that he had entire confidence in her and a secret hking
for her. In his lifetime she had always chenshed the
infenor's distant, respectful wish for his well-being.
Never had she felt that she was so much to him as now,
when he was no longer master in his own house, when
strangers freely laid hands on his keys, while she alone
among so many servants, so many friends, remained with
him, faithful to him as in the days of his pride and
strength. Never had she been so much to him as now,
when the crucifix was lying on his breast ; a tiny crucifix
taken that night from her own room. She rose, and, for
the first time, kissed, one after the other, the lifeless
hands between which the crucifix lay ; it soothed and
reheved her, and she wept.
Don Innocenzo, on going into the passage, found it
was dark. Gropmg his way for a few steps along the
wall, he lost his bearings and stood still, intending to go
back in search of a hght, and listened. He heard, at
intervals, cries and lamentations from the floor above,
and words which he could not catch. Still, be recognised
the voice of Donna Marina. Nobody answered her.
The dull sound of hurried footsteps crossing the passage
above was heard, then it died away. Below, before,
behind Don Innocenzo, all was silence. What was going
A FORMIDABLE VISITOR 415
on up there? The cries and lamentations continued.
Hours of tribulation in which the heart of the household
beats no more, and agitation, and confusion, and disorder
seize on the limbs deprived of control ! Don Innocenzo,
calm face to face with death, calm during the terrible
apparition of Marina, now became disturbed.
A quick step crossed the passage above and moved on
to the stairs.
‘ Light ’ ’ said Don Innocenzo.
‘ Good gracious * ’ exclaimed the person, running away
rapidly into the darkness.
The curate recognised Rico and called to him, but in
vain. In front of him he saw a faint light now appear,
now disappear. Moving towards it on the chance he
pushed open a door and found himself m the loggia.
* Ah, his reverence ’ ’ said Rico, who was on the point
of bolting out at the opposite door.
It might be two o’clock. The air was cold. The sky
was again covered with clouds weirdly lighted between
the invisible moon that had just risen, and the silent
mirror of the lake.
‘ Come here,’ said the curate. ‘ Where are you off to ? ’’
‘ I am going for the medicine.’
‘ What is It ? ’
‘Hark!’
The cries at that moment broke out afresh louder than
before. Don Innocenzo leant over the balcony, and
looking up towards the right saw the light in the comer
window of the floor above. The voice came from up
there. Reproaches, imprecations, lamentations, then
silence.
‘It is Signora Donna Marina,’ said Rico, sotto wee.
‘ She seems to be mad. The doctor and Signor Silla are
up there. She does just go on against Signor Silla 1 ’
MALOMBJiA
416
‘ Is there nobody else ? '
‘Yes, my mother. Miss Fanny was there for a
moment, but she ran away.’
‘ And what is it you are after ? ’
‘How can I tell? The doctor used a word like
“coral.” And he told^me to fetch Battista’s Luisa to
come and nurse her.’
Don Innocenzo produced a letter from his pocket and
gave it to the lad.
‘Take it,’ he said, ‘to Signor Silla’s room and then
we will go together.’
In the other wing of the castle a confused agitation
b^an. Through the chinks of more than one door
there issued whispers and gleams of light. The bell-
wires trembled and jumped impatiently ; and one heard
the notes of the bells ring out clearly, imperiously. On
the staircase Don Innocenzo saw Momolo, who was
going down with a light m his hand.
‘Going, sir?’ he said. No reply was given. As soon
as they had left the castle Rico ran off on his errand,
and the curate walked away slowly, looking at the large,
solemn cypresses. At the gate he met Steinegge. ‘ You
here?’ he said.
‘The bell , I heard the passing bell,’ replied Steinegge,
in an agitated voice; ‘Oh, this is a terrible loss. I
could shed tears for this man.’
‘He embraced Don Innocenzo, smothering a sob,
and then said hurriedly, —
‘ Cm I go in ? Have you seen Signor Silla ? ’
‘Ahl’ replied Don Innocenzo, ‘I should think I
have I ’
And he described the long scene, and repeated what
Rico had told him.
Steinegge became greatly excited ; he hardly waited
^ FORMIDABLE VISITOR
417
till Don Innocenzo had finished, and hurried away with
a gesture of determination which expressed, ‘Let me
have a word.’ He entered the castle as the gardener
hurried out, without recognising him.
Going up the stairs he met Catte and Fanny, who was
crying and saying, —
‘ I want to go away, I want to go away.’
‘You will go,’ replied Catte, ‘but have patience, my
dear girl. Can you leave your mistress in her present
state ? ’
* I don’t know. I want to go away.’
‘ Holy Virgin, what an affair ! ’ said Catte to Steinegge,
who was pressing against the banister to let them pass,
eyeing them with astonishment. He was going to put a
question, when Countess Fosca called out from upstairs, —
‘ Hi, Momolo ! ’
‘ Coming, your Excellency ! ’ replied Catte, and hurried
away downstairs, dragging Fanny with her.
Steinegge, however, hastened up the stairs.
‘ Momolo,’ said the Countess, mistaking Steinegge for
her servant. ‘ Did the man understand, eh ? A luggage
cart and a fly at six. Ah, it’s you. I beg your pardon.’
‘Your ladyship is leaving?’
‘ Yes, yes ; I curse the day on which I came here ! ’
Just then Nepo called to his mother from the dining-
room door. Behind him she saw the advocate Mirovich
seated at a table with a lamp, an inkstand, and two large
sheets of paper in front of him. The Countess went in
and the door was shut in Steinegge’s face. In the loggia
he found Vezza leaning over the balcony above the lake,
and went up, hat in hand, to speak to him, but the latter
barely glanced at him, and signing to him to be silent
turned away his head to listen.
A long, feeble groan was heard.
2 D
MALOMBRA
41S
* Donna Marina ? ’ said Steinegge. -
Ve2za did not reply, he listened again. Nothing more
was heard. Then, as though waking from a dream, he
began talking rapidly-
‘ Terrible goings on, you know. Did they tell you ? ^
* Yes, the curate told me something/
‘Ah, you can have no idea of that scene! Look.^
And Vezza described the whole scene minutely, speakmg
sotfo mce^ and now and then stopping to listen.
‘I go out,’ he continued, ‘with Mirovich, the Salva-
dors’ lawyer. We find Donna Marina in the passage,
writhing in terrible convulsions. She did not cry out,
because she had fastened her teeth in the man’s coat,
here, on the chest ; she was groaning. We send for the
doctor, the maid, the gardener’s wife. With great diffi-
culty they succeed in dragging her up the stairs, without
being able to unclench her teeth. After that I know
nothing accurately ; the violent delirium probably con-
tinued, Now she is quieter, but up to a short time ago
it was a series of cries, maledictions, incoherent suppli-
cations. She was always talking to him. He is there,
you know ? He’s never left the room. It is incredible,
when one thinks of that scene in the loggia, here, only
last year. By the way, do you know that to-night, when
poor Cassar had his final attack, those two were to-
gether.?’
‘ Were together ? ’
‘ Together, together I Fanny found them in her room/
‘ Oh r exclaimed Steinegge. He threw down his hat
and waved his arms wildly.
‘ Together,’ repeated Vezza, after a moment’s silence,
‘ and in a minute everybody knew it’
* Commendatore,’ said Nepo, from the other end of the
loggia, ‘ will you oblige me ? ’
A FORMIDABLE VISITOR
419
Vezza went, returning shortly afterwards.
‘ What confusion ! ’ he said. ‘ Do you know they are
going?’
‘ Who ? ’ replied Steinegge, abstractedly.
‘The Salvadors; at six. Count Nepo lost no time.
He immediately searched for and found the will, which
was drawn by Count Csesar himself, and is dated a fort-
night ago to-day. The hospital at Novara is residuary
legatee. The estate at Lomellina is left upon trust for
sale to raise, within two years, a sum of three hundred
and twenty thousand francs, which, says the testator,
“ I bequeath to my cousin, Count Nepomuceno Salva-
dor of Venice.” Donna Marina gets nothing. An
infinite number of legacies follow. Caesar, hke the
gentleman he was, has forgotten no one. There is also
an annuity for you. I am appointed executor. After
all, it is natural enough that the Salvadors should go ; it
would hardly be dignified for them to remain. The
Count wanted to make a scene, fight a duel, and so on ;
but he allowed himself to be dissuaded.’
Catte here came up asking Vezza to go to the
Countess, and Steinegge remained alone.
He had never been a great dreamer, had poor
Steinegge, but in his fifty years of life he had had his
little dreams, such as that his country might be free, and
that he might enjoy domestic happiness. His last timid,
humble dream had been that his wife would recover,
and that he would earn a living in Alsace ; when fortune
dispelled that dream he dreamt no more.
Or rather he had believed that his dreams were over,
for now, as he looked at the lake from the loggia of the
castle with a great bitterness in his soul, he realised that
another hope which he had cherished spontaneously,
unconsciously, had been destroyed ; and it made him
420
MALOMBRA
Sick at heart. Who would have believed that Silla
would dissemble in that fashion? He determined to
wait for him.
No sound came now from Marina’s room ; all that
wing of the castle was silent. From the other side could
be heard the banging of doors, the ringing of bells. The
door of the loggia was frequently opened ; names were
whispered, no answer j a head peeped m,* then it
vanished, and the door gently closed. Women’s voices
were raised in dispute, then they suddenly ceased. The
gravel in the court crunched beneath many feet, which
then mounted the stone steps. Higher up, among the
paths of the vineyard, men called out to each other, and
sometimes laughed. The Salvadors’ luggage happened
to have been packed two days before , the Countess was
now having them taken to the gardener’s lodge.
Steinegge, standing in the last arch of the loggia, with
his back to the lake and his arms folded, waited with his
eyes fixed on the door through which he hoped to see
Silla come.
At last he heard the steps of two people coming along
the passage. He held his breath and listened ; they
were not talking. The door opened.
* That is understood then, doctor,’ said Silla. ‘ Hav-
ing regard to the serious circumstances under which my
aid was called for, and the state of coma and exhaustion
in which she is at present, I may ask you to say that if
anyone wishes to see me, I shall be for an hour in the
loggia.’
The voice was cold and sinister. Somebody carrying
a hght turned back ; the doctor crossed the loggia, then
Silla entered.
Steinegge went to meet him.
* Signor Silla,’ he said.
^ FOJiMWABLE VISITOR
421
Silla did not answer, did not even look at him, but
went and leant over the balcony above the court.
Steinegge stepped forward.
* Signor Silla, don’t you know me ? ’
Silence.
‘ Oh, I see ; very well.’
He returned to his original post and looked silently at
Silla, who did not stir.
‘ I am not aware,’ he said, ‘ I do not believe that I
have deserved this.’
No answer.
* It is rather hard. Signor Silla, to come as a friend
and to be received thus. I only wished to say to you
that I would rather not have seen you here again ; and
now I would rather see a good honest bullet through
your heart. I came to say this and something else, but
since you will not listen 1 will go. Good-bye.’
He was going away, when Silla, without turning his
head, said coldly, —
‘Tell your daughter that I have kept my word, and
have fallen into the abyss.’
‘ Tell that to my daughter ! ’
‘ Yes ; and now go. Go, go, go ! ’ repeated Silla, with
sudden passion, seeing that Steinegge had turned towards
him. The latter bowed his head resignedly and went
away.
Two lanterns and a silent procession crossed the court
Immediately afterwards Vezza comes to inform Silla
that the Salvadors have gone to wait for their carnage
at the gardenef s lodge, and that, with his permission, he
will communicate a clause in the Count’s will which con-
cerns him.
The door closed behind them ; the loggia remained
deserted.
CHAPTER V
UNFIT TO LIVE
The dawn was breaking over the gloomy rocks of the
Alpe dei Fiori, as they lay in a sea of mist, and was
lighting up the lofty grey summits which slumbered
wrapt in their woody mantles, and the farthest spurs
towards the west blurred in a mist of rmn, and the dull
leaden lake. There it was not yet raining. Not a leaf
stirred in the fig trees and mulberry trees and olives,
which, from the neighbouring fields, hung over the still
water. Their reflections and those of the low stone
walls, and scattered huts and rocks and bushes were
clear and perfect. But from the west the rain was
coming up like a sail slanting from heaven to earth,
growing ever bigger. The poplars in the meadows felt
its approach, and a shudder ran through them. Even
the lake began to roar, and became pitted with small
dark spots. These moved forwards, spreading rapidly,
till they mingled in one broad rufiled Ime in a series of
tremulous wavelets, which rose and spread out fan-hke,
whispering along the shore. Here and on the lake
itself, divided more than ever from the world, shut off
it seemed for ever from the sun, there were mysterious
gatherings full of solemn thoughts, confidential whis-
pered colloquies, a cloister-like quiet in which the air
and the rocks talked of lofty mysteries and hidden
passions.
422
UNFIT TO' LIVE
423
The hills disappeared entirely behind the white cloud
of rain, against which stood out in black the poplars in
the meadows, which one after the other, from the most
distant to the nearest, turned grey in turn, and vanished
like ghosts fleeing before the day. Meanwhile the little
waves advanced ever forwards, moving in serried lines
against the castle. They beat, murmuring, against the
walls, and went whispering inquisitively into the boat-
house. No voice made reply. The west wing had all
its windows closed, but those in the other one were
mostly open. Yet, even thence, there came no sound or
sign of life, though there was a confusion of unmade
beds, and open boxes and chairs standing foolishly in
the middle of the rooms ; and though, at a window on the
second floor, there appeared a human face cold as stone
and paler than the dawn.
Having received Vezza’s communication, Silla leant
out of the window. He knew now that Marina was not
even mentioned in the will, and that the Count had left
him the furniture formerly belonging to his mother, and
ten thousand francs in consideration of his assistance
in the scientific work begun the year before, which he
was to carry on when and how he might think best.
But he was not thinking about that He was watching
the slow advance of the day, and the rain and the waves.
He saw everything indistinctly — his head was heavy as
lead — his heart devoid of feeling. He knew that he was
constrained, by his dishonourable and treacherous
conduct, to a dire necessity \ to link his lot to Marina’s,
mad or not. And he was calm and cold even to the
heart The sky the lake and the rain counselled him
to sleep. Closing the window, he threw himself dressed
upon his bed. He found it softer and more yielding
than ever, the pillow was pleasant as a caress, he
424
MALOMBRA
desired to sleep and to forget: he was beginning to feel
drowsy when he noticed a stranger who was watching him.
He watched him quietly for some time ; then shrugging
his shoulders, raising his eyebrows, and holding out his
hands, he shook his head as though to say : there is no
remedy. Silla seemed to feel, as the most natural thing
in the world, that the stranger gesticulated thus and did
not speak because he was dead. Then he suddenly
recognised in him an old friend of the family who
had committed suicide fifteen years ago. He re-
cognised the large bald forehead, the clean-shaven,
pointed chin, between the tips of a high collar,
and the black tie and malachite scarf-pin. At the
same time he felt surprised that he had not recog-
nised him at once; he might have known he would
come. Indeed, the ghost, reading his thoughts, smiled
at him. That smile was a second revelation. It made
Silla trace back a certain thought to the time of his early
manhood. It had begun with a pleasant melancholy,
with the vague desire for a distant home; then it be-
came a passing presentiment, then a suspicion, always
combated but always stronger, always veiled in mystery,
like some slow, hideous disease which gnaws our vitals,
whose name we recognise but never admit. Finally,
It overpowered his will and became an unanswerable
dictum, a crushing sentence m three words — unfit to
LIVE. Silla, in his mind’s eye, saw those three words
distinctly, and the phantom, always smiling, drew near,
and, with staring eyes, began to press heavily upon him,
chilling him to the bone, making his breath come short.
When the hands reached his heait, he heard and saw
no more.
It seemed to him that he woke up alone, feeling an
infinite pleasure in repeating ‘ Now I am not dreaming.’
UNFIT TO LIVE
425
He was in another world in a dim half-light, all silence
and repose. He gazed, lying face downwards, into a
motionless lake, and saw, slowly passing through it, the
reflection of a globe high in the heaven, the colour of a
rainy dawn, and he kept saying to himself, ‘Ah, I
have left it! I have left that world of misery,’ and he
felt a deep sense of consolation, as one feels in a dream
of love. But then suddenly that dull -grey globe
ceased in its onward progress. He noticed that its size
increased rapidly, immeasurably, and seized with inde-
scribable terror, he awoke.
In front of him, through the open window, he saw
a broad, white light, and raised his head in horror,
thinking he was still dreaming. When he had recovered
himself, he sat up in bed, and felt that his heart pained
him. His head was heavy as lead, and his limbs were
numbed by the cold damp air from the window, then
half-whispering, he replied to his own dream. ‘It is
true; to die is but to go on sleeping. To sleep, to
sleep.’ Above his pillow the inspired angel by Guel-
cino was praying passionately, silently pleading to God
for him : ‘ Who has flung him down to earth ? Who
denied him the desire of his soul? Who made him
unconscious, and detained him, and led him back on the
road to this hour of agony ? ’
Silla involuntarily glanced at the dark mirror opposite
his bed. He caught a glimpse of a pale face and two
weary eyes. He thought that he looked dead already,
and that he had been as pale in former days after some
intoxication of the senses, when his soul was sad and
remorseful. He felt no remorse, nor any spiritual force
whatever ; the very wish to die which came over him in-
dicated a spiritual collapse. Getting off his bed, he walked
staggering to the table, and sat down with his elbows
426 MALOMBRA
resting on it, taking his aching, whirling head between
his hands. In a dim way he recognised that he must
write a line to his relations and to his landlady, and he
felt unequal to the effort. Closing his eyes he struggled
to collect his ideas, forcibly repressed their disorder,
and, stretching out a hand for his pen, he for the first
time saw the letter brought by Rico. He looked at it,
and not knowing the handwriting put it down without
opening it, and began to wnte to his uncle, Pernetti
Anzati, asking him to discontinue the usual quarterly pay-
ments, since he, Silla, was happily in a position to give
the capital to the Pernetti family, which had been so
very fond of him. Before turning over the page he took
up the other letter again and opened it. It contained
the following few lines, without heading and without
date : —
* Edith S. replies to the unknown author that he can
become famous, in spite of fortune, in spite of men’s in-
justice, Edith has vowed never to belong to anyone but
her old father, who has great need of her ; but she is
free to cherish in her heart a name which is dear to her,
a spirit which will never sink to baseness if it loves as he
says it does.’
Silla smiled. ‘At this moment,’ he said. He read
the letter again, and felt his spirit die.
He drew out his pocket-book to place the note inside,
but waited an instant looking at the clear, firm writing,
thinking of the white hand, of the pure soul of the
writer. Abandoning his first idea, feeling his own un-
worthiness, he put down the pocket-book and burnt the
letter, and from the window scattered the little black
ashes to the wind and rain. As he was watching
UNFIT TO LIVE
427
them whirl along the wall a servant entered, saying
that Commendatore Vezza wished to see him, and was
waiting m his room. Sillaleft his half-finished letter and
went out just as he was, with his hair ruffled and his
dress in disarray. As he passed by, the clock on the
stairs struck nine.
‘We have,’ said Vezza, ‘always a new- surprise
here.’
Silla asked no questions ; he waited for the other to
speak, and for this painful imbroglio to finally come to
an end. But the fat little man of the world, instead of
speaking, looked hard at him with his hands in his
pockets and his chin on his breast.
‘Well,’ he said, suddenly abandoning this attitude of
scrutiny, ‘ I am in a most painful position Besides, it’s
stifling in here.’
He opened a window and sat down in an arm-chair
opposite to Silla.
‘ Most painful,’ he repeated.
Silla said not a word.
‘ But I can’t get out of it,’ he added with a sigh. ‘ I
am here as an ambassador. An hour ago Donna Marina
sent for me.’
Silla started.
‘You are surprised. How about myself? But so it
is. It might be a quarter past eight when the gardener’s
wife came and woke me, saying that the Marchioness
awaits me. I was thunderstruck. What do you mean,
I ask. She tells me her ladyship slept without having
recourse to any kind of medicine, and that she woke up
about seven, calm and perfectly herself. Only she did not
wish the Venetian blinds to be thrown open, and pre-
ferred to light a candle, or rather two or three. The
first thing she asked was whether you were still here.
428
MALOMBRA
Then she made them tell her everything she said in her
delirium, and all that happened after — ’
The commendatore stopped, hesitating.
‘ Go on,’ said Silla.
‘After you carried her off from poor Csesar’s room,
and especially — excuse me — after you reproached her
with what she said there.’
‘ I did not reproach her in words ; but she must have
understood that she had horrified me, for she reviled me
in her delirium.’
‘Just so I and the servant tells me that it was about
the horror you showed that the Marchioness kept
questioning her most closely. Then she got up and
sent for me. Now, I must tell you that I still con-
sider her ill, very ill. She is worse to-day than she was
last night, in my opinion. One sees it more in her
mouth than in her eyes. The mouth twitches con-
vulsively. But it is a fact that she spoke to me with a
coldness, with a calm that was astonishing. She was
pale as the dead, I admit ; but that is not of conse-
quence. She begs my pardon for inconveniencing me
with unwonted affability, and goes on to say that in the
extraordinary position in which she finds herself she has
no one to guide or assist her, and that she turns to me
as an old friend of her uncle’s. I naturally place myself
at her service. She then asks me — excuse me. Signor
Silla, you are unfortunately mixed up in the events of
the past night. Bear with me ; I have no desire to
judge you. Do not be offended if I am constrained to
remind you of these, and perhaps of other unpleasant
thmgs.’
‘ Proceed, proceed,’ said Silla.
‘ Very well. She asks after the Salvadors ; why they
have gone ? I look at her. Well, I say, for various
UNFIT TO LIVE
429
reasons After the events of the past few hours they
thought there was no good reason for staying on. This
seems to disturb her a little. She says that she under-
stands, and excuses their departure, that, unfortunately,
appearances are only too much against her, but that
there her folly ended. And here the poor girl tells me
a story which convinces me that she is still mad, and
with a madness more dangerous, perhaps, than the violent
delirium. For a whole week, she says, I have not been
responsible for my actions. I have received communi-
cations from one who is dead which have disordered my
brain. Those communications, she adds, are known to
Signor Silla.'
‘ It is true,’ said Silla.
‘Whew!’ exclaimed the commendatore m amaze-
ment. He was not prepared for this confirmation. It
upset his ideas, and suggested to him the suspicion that
this pale man, with the ruffled hair, and clothes in dis-
array, was not entirely sane himself.
‘ It IS true,’ Silla repeated.
‘ Spiritualism ? ’ asked the commendatore.
‘ No. But go on, I beg.’
Vezza had lost his bearings and the thread of his
discourse. It required an effort before he recovered
himself.
‘ Well,’ he said, ‘ she went on to maintain that for
eight days she had hved in a kind of somnambulism,
dunng which she had done extraordinary things which
she now bitterly regretted. She protests her indifference,
nay, her repugnance for you, whatever she may have
said or done durmg her dangerous hallucination. She
adds that she hopes to make Count Salvador believe
this ; and, in a word, asks me to assist her. What was
I to say ? That, personally, I believed her, but that I
430
MALOMBRA
saw little probability of convincing Count Salvador.
Besides, you will understand, Fanny has not held her
tongue as to — '
Silla impetuously intervened.
‘As to that,’ he said, ‘ I can give my word of honour.’
‘Very well, very well, calm yourself. You understand
that, in any event, there is more than sufficient to keep
Salvador at a distance. To return to the Marchioness.
She then asked me, with a sarcastic smile, if the will had
been read. I communicated its contents to her, and
she was not at all disturbed. “ If I am cut out of it,”
she says, “ that is a reason for a gentleman like my
cousin not to desert me.” After this she spoke about
youj spoke, I must confess, most sensibly. Certain
imperious rules of etiquette are on Donna Marina’s side,
and you, I hope, will not complain if I have promised to
convey her message to you. I assure you that I feel
I am rendering a service to both of you.’
‘ She wants me to go ?’ asked Silla, excitedly.
The commendatore was silent.
‘ But do you imagine that Count Salvador will return
and marry a wife who, everything else apart, is mad and
penniless? How are we to take seriously what a
woman m such a state may say ? ’
‘ Can you put your hand on your heart and tell me,
who have been involved only too much in the
events of this night, to leave Donna Marina now that
she is abandoned by her betrothed, on my account,
now that she has fallen from riches to poverty? — for
her own money is next to nothing, — now that she is
stricken with a terrible disease? I ask you, I repeat,
whether I can desert her with a light heart, and return
to the world as thou^ nothing had happened, just be-
cause this afflicted woman wakes up from her delirium
UNFIT TO LIVE
431
and says, ‘‘ Oh, go away ? Go away and leave her in
her terrible calamity? Do you advise me to commit
this act of treachery ? '
‘ Gently, gently, gently,’ said Vezza, somewhat piqued.
‘ Don’t let us use grand phrases, and let us reflect a little.
You feel bound, in honour, to constitute yourself the
protector of the Marchesina di Malombra. I do not
wish to be hard on you, because I never am in love
affairs, and because, after such a night, who can have a
perfectly cool head ? But tell me — forgive my asking —
what kind of protection can you afford her ladyship?
Reflect well \ a protection neither effective nor honour-
able — a protection which will alienate all her other
friends. For the Marchioness has relations who will as-
sist her, if not from affection, from a sense of what is
fitting. I know them, and I am sure of this. But it is
necessary that you should leave the stage. You see, to
speak clearly, this is not even a case of marriage to repair
a wrong ; the lady rejects you. The lady, above all, is
not quite sane. So what are you to do ? The only thing
you can do is to go away.’
Silla struggled manfully to remain calm, to extinguish
a dim ray of hope that entered his heart, and might, at
this crisis, disturb his judgment.
‘On your honour, Signor Vezza,’ he said, ‘do you
believe that you are giving me good advice ? ’
‘ On my honour, I believe it is the only possible ad-
vice. You can ascertain Donna Marina’s feelings towards
you by seeing her. You can then also judge of her
state of mind.’
‘ I ? It is not to be dreamt of. If I went, I should
not wish to see her.’
‘One moment — the Marchioness begged me to give
her an account of our present interview, which I will do
432
MALOMBRA
with the necessary discretion ; she also expressed a wish
to speak, whatever happened, to you.’
‘Ah! You must ask her. Go! take courage. My
age gives me the right to speak to you like a father,
Signor Silla. Will you explain one thing to me which I
cannot understand, remembering a certain scene last
year ? Aire you sincerely attached to Donna Marina ? ’
‘ Pardon me ; my sentiments are not now in question.*
‘Very well ! Amd I am to tell her that you intend to
leave the castle?*
‘ No ; merely ask her to inform me at what hour I am
to wait upon her.’
‘Very well. To tell the truth, I, personally, should
wish you to remain here a few hours. I would beg you
to assist me — I have so many things to do. I have to
get the district court to seal up everything — ^you under-
stand, there are so many people in the house. Then the
governors of the hospital at Novara have to be written to.
I have sent a telegram, but that is not enough. Then
the funeral arrangements have to be discussed. The
family chapel is at Oleggio. Is the Count to be taken
there ? Is he to be buried here ? By two o’clock they
have promised me the prmted cards announcing his de-
cease — all these have to be sent ojfF; no light task in
itself, for poor Caesar was related to half Piedmont and to
half Tuscany as well In short, as far as I am concerned,
if you were to stay here till this evening I should be
rather glad.’
A strong puff of wind came in through the open
window, and filled out the curtains.
‘Ah! the wind is changing; that’s better,* said the
commendatore. ‘ This frightful weather is an infliction
in itself.’
UNFIT TO LIVE
433
Silla did not reply, but bowed silently and returned to
his own room wrapt in thought.
What was this new enigma ? What was this new irony
of fate ? He recalled certain instances of maniacs who
recovered their reason from one moment to another, on
waking. Possibly Donna Marina’s delirium was only a
transient attack, a nervous exaltation produced by cir-
cumstances which were certainly unusual.
If Vezza was mistaken ? If she had really recovered ?
She despised and rejected him now ; the grievous chain
had indeed been broken.
There remained the remorse and the shame of having
returned to the castle, to the loss of his own self-respect,
with a secret design of wrong-doing, to become the accom-
plice of a mortal enemy of the Count, while the latter,
who had loved and benefited him, was lying stricken
down by death. But if he remained free, would it not
be possible to rise once more, to purify himself by some
long and bitter expiation ? A secret voice whispered this
hope to him, and repeated Edith’s words, ‘ It will never
sink to baseness if it loves as he says it loves.’ It was
not the Silla of a few hours since who sat there letting his
imagination wander thus, while the angel above the bed
prayed unceasingly. The idea of suicide had now left
him. He did not wish to make any resolutions for the
future; he would wait till he had seen and spoken to
Donna Marina. Oh ! if God would show mercy to him,
and raise him up once more I His religious feeling, his
faith in a secret contact between God and the soul, and
in the salutary influence of pain, revived. He hid his
face in his hands, recalling an hour of depression when,
opening the Bible at hazard, he had read, ^ Infirmatus
est usque ad mortem^ sed Deus misertus est ejus^ What
consolation, what revivifying energy there was in this
434
MALOMBRA
thought ! Pictures of a nobler future rose to his mind,
but he tried to blot them out, fearing that he was deceiv-
ing himself and only preparing bitterer disillusions. He
might enter, to punish himself, his relative's spinning
business, and give the day to the thankless toil and the
night to study j then he could say, ‘ I am still worthy of
a place in her heart'
These thoughts aroused within him a storm similar to
the one which was sweeping over the roof and the walls
of the castle. It was still raining there, but the jutting
crags of the Alpe det Fiori stood out black against the
clear sky, shining in the rush of the north wind as it raged
and stormed around them, though it was bringing fine
weather*
CHAPTER VI
A CLEAR SKY
‘ Here is the acanthus that I wished to show you,*
said Don Innocenzo to Steinegge. ^ A fine one, eh ? *
It was basking in the sunshine, in haughty melancholy,
in the middle of a big grey rock, flanked by two small
clumps of trees. At the top, between the rock and the
blue sky, some scanty shrubs waved gaily in the wind
which swept headlong down the valley, and whistled
through Don Innocenzo*s orchard, and round the roof
of the parsonage, and spread in great waves of air over
the meadows. Clumps of brambles hung down from
fissures in the stone, long twining branches of ivy
"moffited upwards from the roots buried beneath the
grass still wet with ram. That huge, half-bare rock, so
greatly loved by the ivy, so patient to the brambles,
represented the life, the speech, the loves of the village.
Don Innocenzo had caused a rustic seat to be placed
there, and would pass whole hours reading and medi-
tating.
* There is a southern look about that acanthus, isn’t
there? I very often come here with a book and my
own thoughts, and in the air I breathe an innocence
which punfies the soul. I have need of it, because I
am envious, ill-tempered, vmdictive and ambitious ; no,
435
MALOMBRA
436
not ambitious, but, possibly, avaricious ; I sometimes feel
that I am avaricious, that I worry myself too much about
some wretched httle investments of mine. You see I am
confessing myself to you. Will you give me absolution ?
I shall go on, because it does me good, and you must
do as you like. Well, when I see cultivated fields, I
see so many people between me and God ; here I feel
there is nobody, and I speak to Him face to face, and
the more readily, because it is about my own private
griefs. I daresay you have similar moments. Is there
never anything which causes you disquiet ? ’
Steinegge all at once thrust his stick into the
ground.
‘ Oh, how blind of me ! * he said. * How stupid IVe
been not to have understood! not to have suspected!
Do you believe that she was very fond of him ? ’
‘Oh, no, not very fond, let us hope. But come!*
said Don Innocenzo, mortified at the small amount of
attention given to his discourse, * calm yourself. Don't
make me regret having told you everything. I spoke in
order to prevent your asking your daughter for an ex-
planation of that speech of Signor Silla's. You must
not mention it to her, it would pain her too much. For
the rest, perhaps it is better so j nay, let us say right out •
It is better so. Do you know what kind of a man he
was, this Signor Silla ? ’
* What kind of a man ? No ; how could I ? I was so
fond of him ! Even now I cannot judge him as you do.^
He struck his forehead as though he wished to crush
the painful thoughts within.
‘For me,’ he said, ‘for me! I would kiss the ground
on which she treads, and then I would say to her;
Trample upon me, for I do not understand. Don’t you
see that it is too much for me to possess the whole of
A CLEAR SKY
437
Edith’s love, and that I sometimes feel remorse about
my great selfishness, and that I should have been pleased
at such a marriage, because I am old, and there are
other things to think about’
‘ Come,’ said Don Innocenzo, moved, taking Steinegge
by the arm, and leading him to the rustic seat, ‘ let us
stop here and think it over, and endeavour to discover
what your daughter’s reasons were.’
Steinegge stopped suddenly, fearing some new revela-
tion.
* Eh ? ’ he said.
‘ Come, come, sit here,’
Don Innocenzo could not find the right words; he
kept rubbing his hands briskly together, and pursing up
his lips.
‘ Have you ever observed,’ he began at last, ‘ that your
daughter seemecs*' preoccupied, that she had any secret
anxiety ? ’
Steinegge started.
‘ Money ? ’ he said,
‘ No, no.’
A ternble fear contracted the poor man’s features.
‘Health?’
‘No, TiO. Listen. It might be that your daughter
wished to think of you alone, give herself up to you
alone, in fact, live for you alone, until the time when
you, dear old friend ’ — here Don Innocenzo took him by
the hand — ‘ understood what is the secret anxiety which
I know fills the mind of that dear young lady, your
daughter Edith.’
‘ You know ! ’ said Steinegge, turning pale, and press-
ing the priest’s hand, while he looked at him open-
mouthed.
‘ Let us suppose I am not a priest,’ continued the
438
MALOMBRA
curate. ‘For the present, I am not a priest, but a
friend. Very well. Will you listen to me as a
friend? ’
Steinegge nodded his head vigorously, without being
able to speak.
‘Well, very well. Now, you have had a hard life,
have you not? You have been persecuted and calumni-
ated, more especially by men wearing my cloth? Say
so frankly. Do you think that I don’t know any priests
that are rogues? Well, you have conceived a great
aversion to them all — no, not to me ; no, but it is an ex-
ception. Then you have conceived a great contempt
for another thing infinitely superior to those miserable
priests — for the Word, of which they ought to be the
guardians and ministers. Let me finish ; you can speak
later. I believe fully that after Edith’s arrival you drew
nearer to the Word; how could you do otherwise?
With her at your side, you must have felt its warmth
and light ; but, up to the present time, how much have
you in common in matters of religion ? Very little, have
you not? You cannot say you are a Catholic, hardly,
indeed, a Christian. Now Edith believes, and must be-
lieve, that unless you submit yourself honestly to the
Church, you and she cannot share together the Re-
surrection and the Life. This is her secret grief. All
your daughter’s love, all her thoughts are centred here.
She lives for that work alone. I am confident that she
aims at the sacrifice of herself, and finds therein a peculiar
joy and a new vein of hope. You can feel proud to be
loved thus. Your daughter trusts in God to accomplish
her dream ; do you understand ? She will not say to you :
If you love me, do this. Never 1 She wishes your two
souls to dwell in close proximity, in constant communi-
cation, so that little by little, imperceptibly, each day,
A CLEAR SJCY
439
each houii the Faith may enter your soul, my dear old
friend. Perhaps I ought not to have told you this.’
‘ Oh ! ’ exclaimed Steinegge, in a broken voice of
protest.
‘ Perhaps I ought not to have done so, but just now,
when you said “ I don’t understand,” something within
me overcame my prudence, and I thought to myself,
Now one ought to speak j such a sacrifice ought to be
appreciated. I won’t speak to him as a priest, but as a
frie'id, and, as priest, I do not speak. I will only say
that I should not have advised this sacrifice, and that I
venerate your daughter ’
Steinegge tilted his hat on to the back of his neck,
clasped his hands, and nervously agitated them, looking
up into the sky ; then he hid his face in his hands, rest-
ing his elbows on his knees.
‘I knew,’ he murmured, ‘that the first evening — but
then, afterwards — I thought that she was content.’
Don Innocenzo bent down to catch the words, which
had escaped him.
‘ Eh ? ’ he asked affectionately.
‘I thought that she was content,’ repeated his friend,
without uncovering his face, ‘for now I pray with her —
I even go to church — I have forgiven everyone j I
thought it was enough.’
The curate felt inchned to put an arm round his neck
and say, —
‘ Yes, go in peace , for you, poor, weary one, simple
and humble of heart, it is enough. You are like a boy
sent by his father out into the world to work, and the
lad, beaten and persecuted by his comrades, returns,
having learnt nothmg and earned nothing, to the
paternal house. He knocks, weeping, at the door,
which the servants have shut in his face, as a ne’er-do-
440
MALOMBRA
weel. His father has seen, and knows all. Great God,
will not you rfeceive and console him ? ’
He was on the point of saying this, but his glance fell
on the cloth he wore, and he checked himself, biting his
lips, and keeping the words within his kindly heart.
Steinegge suddenly jumped up.
‘Let us go to her, old friend,* he said. ‘Let us go
quickly. I will do everything you say; let us go
quickly.*
‘ No, no, no,* replied Don Innocenzo, ‘ she would not
accept an act due to your love for her and not to con-
viction. Do not speak to her of to-day*s conversation.
Since you say that you pray, go on praying, and ask God
to illumine your heart, and if the light comes, then
certainly speak to your daughter, saying : I have thought,
I have prayed, I believe. Not before. And now, allow
me to be a priest again, and to say that I am here
entirely at your service. We will t^, and read, and
discuss — ^we will even abuse the priests, if you wish 1 *
Don Innocenzo added these words, smiling, because
Steinegge seemed to hesitate.
‘Excuse me,* said the latter, ‘I trust you will pardon
me, but we will not read or argue. I know your argu^
ments would do no good, for I have heard and have
read too many theological arguments already, though
neither a philosopher nor a literary man. I should be
afraid to hear from you arguments which I knew already,
do you see? Arguments which I have heard demolished,
and it would make my heart sink if I felt, excuse my
frankness, that you fight with casuistry as a weapon. I
feel I shall derive more benefit from such an essay as I
read a few days ago in a recent German work by Hart-
mann, whom you would think a great heretic, in which
he says that Christianity will finish as it began, der ktzU
A CLEAR SKY
441
Trost^ the last comfort of the poor and the afflicted.
This seemed to throw a great light upon your faith.
Note that, according to this writer, the human race will
one day grieve over the vanity of the world. On the
other hand, you cannot find arguments which will hold
mankind as in a vice. You ought to hold the world in
your hands ; you ought to have thought on your side
and the passions against you. But it is the contrary
which occurs \ you have many more servants of passion
than servants of thought, many more women than men,
much more mob than intellect. No, what you can
appeal to is the heart, I imagine ; when you have won
the heart and drawn it to you, the whole man has to
follow. That is what is happening in my case, for my
heart is no longer uuder my control. You, my friend, have
part of it j and, shall I tell you something ? That kindly
face, of which I am so fond, above your black coat, is a
stronger argument to me than all your theology put
together.’
As he pronounced the word ‘theology,’ Steinegge
wrinkled his nose, as though it were a word of evil
odour.
‘What nonsense !’ said Don Innocenzo, with knitted
brows and a smile on his lips.
‘ Oh, no, not nonsense at all 1 ’
‘ Yes, nonsense. It is not true that we have no argu-
ments. Naturally, religious faith based on a mystery
cannot be supported by logical arguments which hold
men like a vice. You cannot treat this problem like one
in geometry \ nevertheless, there is a process of thought
which leads towards the mystery, a more rapid process
than your wonderful logical one, which, after all, my
dear Steinegge, has never led to any great discovery.
Let us take the trivial distinction between heart and
442
MALOMBRA
mind, or, if you will, love and intellect, and let us
remember that they are not different parts of one soul
Is there, by any chance, one bit of the sun which warms
and another which snines ? Well, messieurs les philosophes^
when in search of truth, say : We have these two legs,
one of which takes enormous strides and bounds, and
would, indeed, be capable of leaping a huge chasm
across our path. We do not wish to run this risk, we
prefer to always feel mother earth beneath our f^et. We
shall hold this left leg, this sentimental leg, in check;
we shall not take a step back with it w^hen necessary,
steadying it with the other ; no, we shall cut it off, once
and for all, and go along on one leg, very gently, as far
as we can. And so they do, my dear sir ; they set out
to conquer the world with one leg, and they call it
‘‘positivism.” Will these people guide the world?
They will guide it ill’
Don Innocenzo rose, his face rather flushed, and a
fine intelligent light in his eyes.
‘I tell you,’ he continued more calmly, ‘that human
thought cannot and should not occupy itself with
theological researches without a previous moral train-
ing. It is necessary that the medium of research, the
mind, should be in a suitable condition, that it should
retain all its natural tendencies towards good, for the
principles of good are the principles of truth. Every
passion, beginning with pnde, gives the mind a different
bias, and alters that tendency ; and then, where do we
land? We have just seen where one lands. That is
why, in our religion, moral teaching precedes dogmatic
teaching. This is where the heart renders us the first
great service in religious research. It determines the
direction, from the starting-point. You start with pride,
with sensuality ; you, logically, will travel towards
A CLEAR SKY
443
negation, the void and sm, because there is a terrible
logical road which leads thither. Start with a pure heart
and pure conduct, and you will journey towards the
truth. But how? By logic alone? No. By one’s
heart and feelings? Equally no. With all the faculties
of the soul, reason, imagination, love. I speak now of
human means of research. I leave grace on one side.
It is not a question of induction or of deduction, but of
boldly advancmg great theories. Imagination is required
for this, and ardour and purity of feeling, and, above all,
the sublimest faculty we possess, one which I know not
how the Rationalists explain — ^the faculty of grasping by
sudden inspiration —
* I have not got that,’ said Steinegge.
‘ Of grasping ideas above the ordinary mental grasp of
the person m question, so that they come on him by
surprise. Then a patient logical inquiry begins, in order
to see whether these ideas are compatible with one
another and with truths already known, and to modify
or abandon them if need be. Certainly even this pro-
cess does not explain mysteries, but we sometimes obtain
this valuable result, that they are pointed to exactly
where revelation says they exist, like a planet whose posi-
tion is indicated by an astronomer, and it is afterwards
seen there. Then, if not sooner, faith supervenes. I
know what your rationalists reply.’
‘ Oh r said Steinegge, as though begging to be ex-
cused.
A violent gust of wind fell shrieking on the brambles
of the rock, set the trees of the wood wildly whirling,
with a soughing sound which drowned the speaker’s
voice. Don Innocenzo, still flushed, not being able to
speak, shook his forefinger at Steinegge as though to
convey that the rationalist’s reply was valueless \ then he
444
MALOMBRA
raised his head as though to face this obstreperous wind
which had with such want of tact drowned the inter-
change of enlightened ideas, like the uproar and hostile
vote of some democratic mob. As soon as possible
he resumed.
‘The rationalists reply that this mode of arguing may
be good for those who use it, but that it proves nothing
and cannot help to establish the truth. Foolishness ’ It
may not serve them, who are hardened by their sordid,
impotent system ; it does serve others. We will talk and
read, my friend. I hope, by God’s grace, to succeed in
persuading you that there is a beauty of truth which
stirs and soothes, not the heart only, but the whole
human soul ; a beauty which we can only see as through
a glass darkly, but with what heavenly delight ! To see,
even though confusedly, the hidden concords, the con-
verging lines of the created and the uncreate; for
example, the most lofty mysteries of the Divinity, and
the most hidden secrets of men’s souls. Let us meditate
and contemplate together ; yes, we will do that. For
the present it is enough ; I will say no more.’
‘ My dear friend,’ said Steinegge, with a sigh ; ‘ it may
be that you talk very well, but you do not know me.
What you propose would be well enough for a young
man who feels the need of exercising his brains, has a
thirst for knowledge, and takes more pride in making a
small discovery by his own exertions than in acquinng
much knowledge laid cut and dry on his table. Oh, I
know, and perhaps I may have been a little like that
myself once. Now I am a weary old man ; and my
head is full of opinions opposed to yours, and my opinions
may be wrong, because the men and the books from whom
I took them may not rank very high. I must tell you
the truth ; some of these opinions have disappeared since
A CLEAR SEY
445
my daughter has been with me; I know not how they
came to vanish : certainly not through arguments. I
may be able to part amicably with my other views. I can
say to them : Be silent, since my daughter wishes it , be
absolutely silent when I do this or that, because I cannot
put you to flight, but I am determined not to listen to you.
Perhaps then, with time, they will depart of their own
accord. Bear with me ; I believe that I shall feel much
greater satisfaction in taking this line than if you were
to convince me by argument. What can I give Edith if
not this ? What can I leave to my daughter when I die,
unless it be a perfectly kind and loving recollection of
me ? Now, it has never even occurred to me, when I
have seen Edith going to confession, that I should be
divided from her in another life because I don’t go down
on my knees before a priest ; it is an idea absolutely re-
pugnant to me, still, if Edith desires it — Oh, but why,
why has she concealed this from me ? ’
Clasping his hands, he raised them, shaking nervously,
towards heaven.
‘ The first evening, I admit, it did occur to me, and
the following morning as well, when I accompanied her
to mass in your church here j but then she was always so
loving towards me, and so gentle. She often spoke to
me of religion, but merely by telling me her own thoughts
and feelings, as though it were a matter affecting her and
not me. I listened with great pleasure, just as you, who
are, and wish to remain, Italian, would listen to my
daughter if she spoke to you about our German life, our
poetry and our music. When I began to go to church
and to pray with her, she was pleased certainly, but she
seemed to fear I might weary of it, that I only did it to
please her. Only one thing she earnestly begged of me,
to forgive my enemies.’
MALOMBRA
446
* And you have forgiven them ? ’ said Don Innocenzo.
‘I have made the greatest efforts/ replied Steinegge,
getting agitated. ‘I have not forgiven but forgotten
Siose who have done injuries to me ; and even for the
others — Here his voice died away, as though suffocated.
‘I have done what I could.'
Don Innocenzo, who was moved also, remained
silent. Perhaps his conscience reminded him that he
had bitterly resented — ^he, a priest— some wrongs certainly
less serious than those endured by poor Steinegge, a
Christian without knowing it, a better Christian than
himself.
The wind whispered among the copses, among the
leafy tree-tops; one saw it gliding over the velvet grass,
changing the hue of its green.
‘ Lovely weather ! ' said Steinegge, still struggling with
emotion.
‘Very,' replied the curate.
Steinegge remained silent for a moment, then he
passionately embraced Don Innocenzo, saying in
smothered tones, —
‘ Let us go to Edith.'
‘ Certainly, but do not speak to her now ; wait, and
thus show her that your resolve is a voluntary one.'
Steinegge's only answer was to take his friend's arm in
his, and, pressing it hard, to walk towards the house.
Having gone a few paces they heard Marta calling out
from the garden, ‘ Oh, your reverence, oh ! your rever-
ence 1' There were people in the garden, men and
women. Don Innocenzo in surprise quickened his
pace.
He found the Mayor, the president of the charity
commission, and the captain of the national guard, who
had come to consult with the curate about the Count's
A CLEAR SEY
447
funeral, which was to take place on the morning of the
day after to-morrow. There were rumours of handsome
bequests to the poor people of the village. The captain,
a bearded ex-Garibaldian, had gone direct to the castle
for information. There were in fact 70,000 francs for a
children’s home, and 30,000 francs, the interest to go
in three dowries a year to poor girls in the village. The
captain had quickly prepared his programme of funeral
honours to be paid to the generous testator, and had
communicated them to the Mayor and the president of
the chanty commission, whom, with friendly pity, he
termed ‘big country bumpkins,’ because they, feeling
embarrassed and not having the least idea as to ‘ how
these things are done now,’ as he put it, stood hesitating
and staring at each other, muttering that they knew
nothing of these things, and that it was madness to throw
away money on a dead man, who, after all, said the
Mayor, to the corporation proper, had left nothing. The
captain had roused public opinion with a view to stir up
these fossils, and had brought them, with a number of
his own friends, to the curate to obtain his weighty
judgment. These people surrounded Don Innocenzo,
all talking at once, calling to each other to be quiet,
discussing a medley of plans and amendments — ^national
guard, undress, full dress, one salute, three salutes, the
band of this village, the band of that, a sermon in church,
an oration at the cemetery. Don Innocenzo with diffi-
culty persuaded them to be quiet, and followed them into
the house. Here five or six girls, the hveliest damsels in
the village, who had just made a rush on Marta, stepped
forward and faced the curate with red cheeks, and eyes
bright with laughter. They came in the name of the
village maidens to ask for flowers for the coffin of their
benefactor. Marta had administered a rebuff, and had
MALOMBRA
448
told them they were bold-faced hussies to come and ask
for the curate's flowers to put in their own hair or to give
to some of the numerous lovers whom they always had
dangling after them. One girl made a vivacious retort,
and her companions laughed. The curate paid no at-
tention to Marta's angry glances and mutterings; he
abandoned his poor flowers without a word.
Steinegge was anxious to see Edith, not to speak to
her, but to read her thoughts and to enjoy more keenly
the secret satisfaction of feeling that he had pleasant
and unexpected news to give her before long. She
was not in the garden. Steinegge took leave of the
authorities, bowing profoundly, and ran up to his
daughter's room.
She was not there. On the bed lay her hat and gloves
and a small album. Steinegge opened it, and found a
sketch taken from the banks of the lake underneath the
poplars. He at once recognised the serrated summits of
the Alpe dei Fiori^ the same which eight months ago
had made Edith say : ‘ We go from idyll to tragedy.'
In a comer she had written, Am Aarensee. Steinegge at
once recalled the melancholy song : —
‘ Ack tief im Herun da sitzt tkr Weky
Das weiss nur der melgrune WaW
The dull, cold landscape, with a hght like snow, and
shade like lead, recalled the afflicted spirit rather than
the green forest. Steinegge felt sad ; he thought, in a
confused way, that the trouble must be more deeply
rooted than Don Innocenzo had said. Where was Edith ?
Why could he not offer her consolation at once, at anyrate
some recompense for the sacrifice she had made ? The
noise in the dining-room and garden, the harsh voices of
the peasants, the careless laughter of the girls irritated
A CLEAR SRrr
449
him. If Edith heard that din it would make her feel
her solitude the more bitterly. Thinking he heard a
step in the garden, he went to the window. It was Edith,
who had been laying the table, but went out before the
curate and his visitors came in. Steinegge reproved her
gently for standing out in the sun without a parasol, and
was going to take her one in spite of her protests, but on
going into the garden he could not find her. She was
not in the house. At last he found her near the garden
gate talking to the girls engaged in stripping the rose
trees. He did not call out or go to her, fearing he might
not be wanted.
Getting behind a corner of the house, so as to be
out of sight, he felt that he would go away for ever, and
give up Edith, only to recall the moment when Silla
had brought his book. Yes, yes, how well he remem-
bered now her passionate protests. And to think that
so much trouble, so much pain, was due to his blind-
ness in not having understood his daughter’s secret
anxiety.
Meanwhile, in the dining-room, matters had been
arranged. The voices were lowered. The curate and
the others went into the garden, talking quietly.
* Nothing could be better,’ said Don Innocenzo, as he
glanced towards Steinegge.
‘ Ah ! ’ replied the captain, ' it was Commendatore
Vezza who told me. I made no inquiries, but he told
me that Signor Silla is going away this evening, and
that one need not believe everything one hears.’
‘ Oh 1 ’ exclaimed Steinegge, his eyes flashing at the
pleasant surprise. ‘Forgive my taking part in your
conversation. What were Signor Vezza’s exact words ?’
The captain repeated what he had already said, add-
ing, however, what he knew about Marina’s state of
450
MALOMBHA
health. Then his audience made their comments, each
one having a dififerent theory.
Edith had been exerting a little influence over the
high-spirited maidens. They told her that the captain
had suggested getting the wreath from Como or from
Milan, but that they had wished to use flowers from
the village. The framework of the wreath was being
made. They had not yet decided on the arrangement
of the flowers. Edith suggested a wreath of olive
leaves and white roses, with a cross of violets. She
said she would pick the roses herself to prevent the
trees being damaged and the buds spoilt unneces-
sarily. Hearing the others talking, she imagined that
they were talking about the castle, and pricked her
fingers without noticing it, and began cutting the stalks
either too long or too short She was so pale that the
girls thought she was ill, and begged her not to go on.
She confessed to a slight headache, but said she would
go on, fearing that her father would call to her and
would notice her agitation. Then the men arrived,
wished her good evening, and stopped to look at the
flowers, and to talk to the girls about their good
fortune and the number of weddings there would soon
be. Steinegge had remained behind. Edith saw him.
He seemed anxious for the group to disperse. He
walked up and down, now and then glancing at the people,
who seemed to have taken root among the rose trees.
Even Marta came to the comer of the house to look,
shielding her eyes with her left hand. Then she said
something to Steinegge, who motioned to Edith to
come near, and met her, holding out the parasol. He
reproached her with being determined to get a headache,
and added, jestingly, that he was angry with her because
she had deserted him that morning, flitting hither and
A CLEAR SKY
451
thither like a butterfly. Where had she been? He
feared she had been doing something imprudent, going
to dangerous spots, near some treacherous lake, only
to pick up verses thrown away months ago.
‘Oh, father,’ said Edith, ‘it is not right to go and
look in my sketch-book, nor to make insinuations. I
have left the fits of melancholy where they are — ^in
the lake, in the Aarensee. And as to the song on the
bank, I have only found the title. That does no
harm. And then, don’t you remember how we laughed
last year ? I shall finish that sketch, and shall put in
you, sir, running wildly after your daughter with an
umbrella under your arm. I wish I could put in the
bursts of laughter too,’
‘We will put in others,’ said Steinegge. ‘You see
the sunlight, the green grass, the fresh breeze — is it
not all like one great laugh? Suppose we were at
Milan? There is youth in the air we breathe here
We might go for a walk. Are you tired ? ’
‘ No, father. But where do you wish to go to ? ’
‘Just for a little walk. Signora Marta! Signora
Marta ! may I ask at what time we dine?’
‘ At three 1 ’ cried Marta, from the kitchen.
‘ Well, then, we might go to the paper mill.’
‘ Excellent I excellent ^ I will come too,’ said Don
Innocenzo, who had just got rid of his visitors. ‘ I have
to speak to the engineer in charge.’
Edith ran upstairs for her hat and gloves. When
she came down her father and the curate broke off their
conversation. She observed a new expression of con-
tentment on their faces, and gave them a searching
look.
‘Quick! Let us go,’ said Steinegge; and, for once
forgetting to be formal, he marched on ahead.
452
MALOMBRA
Don Innocenzo seized the opportunity to whisper to
Edith, —
‘There is nothing more between those two. He
leaves this evening.’
Edith was just going to put a question when her
father turned round and called to her, and Marta also
called out from the kitchen, —
‘ Be quick. You haven’t too much time.’
Edith had no chance of asking for further explana-
tions. Only, as they went out of the gate, the curate
whispered to her, —
* Perhaps it was your letter ’
* Mine ? ’ replied Edith.
Don Innocenzo nodded, and took Steinegge’s arm in his.
Edith started. The curate had not told her that he
had delivered her letter. How could he do so after all
that had happened? After all, was Silla’s departure
such a very happy thing ? Did it not occur after irre-
parable evils ? Yes \ still it was a good thing, no doubt.
If her letter had done good, she thought, she must not
mind having innocently intervened in the midst of such
base intngues, having spoken m more than friendly
words to one unworthy of them. She resigned herself
to the situation, and thanked God for making use of her
in an act of mercy. At the same time she felt that her
own sacrifice would become in the future more difficult
and more painful, and that this man would endeavour to
approach her and make excuses for his errors. And
then? Then the battle would rage within her once
more; and how fiercely! For if at Milan she had
hoped that it was only an affair of the imagination, and
had tried to convince herself by a careful, perhaps im-
prudent, self-analysis, she did not deceive herself now ;
she knew that her heart was bleeding.
A CLEAR SRY
453
‘ Edith/ cried her father, seeing her lag|;^ehmd.
Edith raised her eyes and saw him arm-in-arm with
the curate, A ray of hope flashed through her. She
sprang to his side,
‘ Here I am,’ she said.
They had just reached the new road which, twisting
away from the village, crossed the meadows to the river.
Seen from a height it looked like an ugly wound made
by some huge blade upon the grass, white and straight
between two rows of slight, dwarfish poplars. Yet it was
a pleasant landscape. There was a pure delight in pass-
ing through that rich, green sea, magnificent in its care-
less wealth of flowers, strong in the breath of life that
rose from its midst, in the waving tufts of grass which, to
the right and left, rose on the banks of the road, as
though they had flung themselves upon them in an
attempt to scale them and once more cover everything
with rich, unfading verdure. The little poplars moved
in the breeze ; some large, white clouds sailed across the
sky ; their shadows fell on the grass and on the flashing
surface of the lake, and tinged its blue with violet.
‘ A beautiful stretch of green,’ said Steinegge, looking
all round. ‘One might be looking into a green wine-
glass.’
‘An empty one,* observed Don Innocenzo.
‘Oh, that is a sad thought, and quite unnecessary.
In this empty glass there is still a fragrance — ^a bouquet
which exhilarat cor^ which clears the brain, does it not?
I am astonished at you. I am a great spiritualist now,
and I may possibly discover that the water of the river
to which we are going, if drunk over there, on the bank
beneath the tall poplars, contains sunshine and has a
flavour of jocund spring, which is more delicately intoxi-
cating than Johannisberg.’
454
MALOMBRA
‘Just turn round,’ said Don Innocenzo, ‘and see how
well my little house looks from here.’
The little house did indeed look well, standing above
and apart from the others, gleaming white beneath its
slanting roof.
‘It looks as though it were looking at us,’ said Edith,
‘and smiles at us like a good little grandmother who
cannot move.’
‘ Oh,’ exclaimed Steinegge, ‘ I should be glad to live
here.’
‘So should I, father. One feels kindly disposed to
everybody. It is for you, reverend sir, to find us a nest.
‘There is mine,’ he said. ‘An excellent idea ! Come
and live with the old priest! Why not? Wouldn’t it
be a good arrangement ? Wouldn’t you be comfortable ?
I think old Marta takes sufficient pains ? ’
Edith smiled^ while her father burst into exclamations
and protestations of gratitude.’
‘ No, no,’ said Edith \ * we cannot possibly leave
Milan ; besides, that plan wouldn’t do. We should have
to take a house.’
‘Really? You would go on living in this solitary
spot?’
Edith looked grave, surprised. Don Innocenzo be-
came silent.
‘ She would not be the only treasure buried here,’ said
Steinegge, turning to the priest with a courteous bow.
Don Innocenzo fenced, blushing and laughing, with
the compliment
‘Yes, you would be here too, would you not?’ he
said.
‘Oh, no, I should be like a piece of prehistoric
pottery. I could stay here well enough, but my daughter
cannot’
A CLEAR SKY
455
‘Why not, father?’
He rephed impetuously in German, as he always did
when his emotions were roused. Then he turned to
Don Innocenzo without awaiting her reply.
‘Is it not the fact,’ he said, ‘that this place is not
suitable for a young lady, unless, of course, she were a
Mxer
^ANixei Who knows?’ said Edith. ‘I love clear
streams and meadows and woods.’
‘Oh, yes, but I do not think the Nixen love ugly,
sallow-complexioned old gentlemen like me, or go out
walking with the parish priest. Do you know what I
now see in my mind’s eye ? ’
The strange man stood still, spreading out his arms
and shutting his eyes.
‘I see the most worthy Signor Andreas Gotthold
Steinegge, whose hair has grown whiter and who is living
in the house of his dear friend here, who has no hair at
all. I see this German gentleman, with a newspaper in
his hand, hotly discussing the question of Schleswig-
Holstein with his friend, who orders him just one little
glass of Valtellina to wash down the Duke of Augusten-
burg. Eh, is that not so ? ’
He opened his eyes for a moment to look at Don
Innocenzo, who was laughing, and then closed them
again.
‘ And now I see — oh, what do I see ? A young Nixe
in a travelling dress, who comes into the room like a
falling star, and embraces the old owl of a German, and
says that she has come to spend a couple of days among
the clear streams and meadows and woods. “ Alone ? ”
says the owl. Thereupon the Nixe makes a little gesture
with a little hand which I know,’ and, opening his eyes,
Steinegge took hold of Edith’s hand to kiss it, but Edith
MALOMBRA
456
hastily withdrew it, and, leaving her, he took four great
strides forwards, laughing, and then turned round to look
at her.
* Is it not a pretty vision ? ' he said.
Edith waited a moment before she answered. She
hardly knew what to think. Was there a hidden purpose
in her father’s remarks, a pre-arranged plan ?
‘So you are tired of me?’ she said. ‘You want to
live alone ? ’
‘ How alone ? ’ exclaimed Don Innocenzo. ‘ Did not
you hear that he would live with me ? ’
‘ I am tired, I am very tired of you,’ replied Steinegge,
but I should not care to live alone. As a change from
your company I should come here, to our friend, for
some months in each year. Listen — I am not joking
now — I should have to spend a great deal of time with
the curate.’
Edith looked at the latter. Had he become a princi-
pal in the affair ? Were thmgs going well ? The curate
was attentively watching a waggon that was lumbering
along the rough road from the paper mill,
‘We wish to find a philosopher’s stone,’ continued
Steinegge, ‘a stone which changes to gold everything
around us that is dark and ugly — around and, still more,
within us.’
‘ And it is to be found here, this wonderful stone ? ’
asked Edith, eagerly.
‘ I know not. I hope so,’
* And why may I not join in the search ? ’
* Because it is not necessary, and we do not
wish it.’
‘ But what will you do with me, father ? ’
* Ah, we don’t know yet,’
At this moment the waggon came up, separating Edith
A CLEAR SKY
457
from her two companions. Don Innocenzo stepped
rapidly up to Steinegge, whispenng, —
‘ Don’t go too far.’
‘ I can’t,’ he replied.
The waggon passed by.
They had reached a point near the river where the
road makes a bend along the right bank and the line
of poplars till it reaches the mill.
‘ Go on,’ said Steinegge to the curate. ‘ We will wait
for you here.’
With his daughter he left the road and walked down
a grassy slope, till they reached the shadow of an enor-
mous rock jutting out into the river. The laughing
waters formed a poem of delight, an old-fashioned,
popular poem such as the ingenuous human heart, over-
full of passion and imagination, was wont to make.
They passed between banks, here stony, here decked
with flowers, leaping, laughing, singing, shining away
right down to the rocky bed. They caressed the grass
and wore away the stones, while from the mid-current
came, now and again, passionate cries and light clouds
of foam. To all these voices came as answer the gay
rustling of the poplars pointing to the sapphire sky.
‘ Ah,’ said Steinegge.
* So vUl der Mai ouch Blumlem bringt
Zu Trost und Augsnweide • . .*
Edith interposed.
‘ Why did you say that to me, father?’
* Say what ? ’
* That one day you would be separated from me.’-
‘ Oh, no, not separated \ only that I should come and
spend some time here. Never separated. Nothing
shall separate us. Do you understand ? Nothing.’
45S MALOMBRA
He said the last words sotfo voce^ taking both her hands
in his,
* Yes, I now feel, for the first time, that we must be
divided in nothing, in nothing here.’
And he pressed her hands against his heart. He
silently drew her down, and sat down beside her on the
grass.
‘ It IS impossible,’ he went on, as though talking to
himself. ‘My heart is full of this one subject. Yes,
Edith, we have never been in perfect harmony. Do you
remember the evening of your arrival, when I came to
your room and you were praying at the window? It
was agony to me ! I thought that you would not love
me because I did not believe as you do. And next day,
while you were at mass, do you remember that I went
out ? Do you know what I did during mass ? ’
He spoke like one who knows not whether to laugh
or cry.
‘ I uttered my thoughts to God ; I prayed Him not to
come between us, not to take away your love.’
Edith nervously pressed his hand, biting her lip,
smiling at him with eyes wet with tears.
‘And you have always been so loving and so good
that you have made my life a paradise, and I have under-
stood that God has heard my prayer. This has moved
me greatly, for I knew that I deserved nothing. No-
thing, believe me. So it moved me to see that God
permitted you to be so loving to me. I was happy, yet
not always. When we went to church together I prayed
beside you and thanked God j and yet there was some-
thing withm my heart, something cold and painful, as
though I were outside the door and you in front of
everybody, near the altar. In short, I felt I was far
away firom you. I hated myself at that moment,
A CLEAR SKY
459
and I was so stupid as even to love you less. So
when — ’
He hesitated a moment, and then, placing his lips
against her ear, whispered some words, to which she
did not reply, and went on in a louder tone, —
* How much I suffered 1 A thing so repugnant to
me! Perhaps it was through the irritating memories
that were in my heart ,* perhaps because I was jealous of
that hidden Being to whom you confided your thoughts.
Not only jealous, afraid. I felt that, though invisible
and unknown to me. He might strike me, and take away
a little of your esteem and love. Do you know that I
have passed sleepless nights through this? After I
found that you were always the same to me, I began to
foiget, and recovered my spirits. Yesterday, finding
myself m church with Don Innocenzo, I realised how
much progress I had made in a few months, without
knowing it. I had the impression of standing at an open
gate leading to a land of promise, into which I could not
enter. Now, listen, Edith, daughter mine.’
She silently turned her face towards him, still pressing
one of his hands in hers.
‘ I have entered in,’ he said, in deep, quivering tones,
Edith bowed her head over that hand, and kissed it,
‘ I have entered. Do not ask me how. I know that the
world seems inexpressibly different from what it was now
that I cherish the intention of yielding myself entirely to
the faith. One can hardly say that all I see gives me a
feeling of repose. Yet it is so. I have never felt a
sensation of repose similar to that which my eyes bring
to my heart. You will smile if I say that I feel a great
affection for something which is in surroundmg nature.
What do you think of all this, Edith ? ’
She raised her face, it was wet with tears.
460
MALOMBRA
* How can you ask me, father ? How can you ask me ? ’
That was all she could say. Her sacrifice had been
accepted by God, and rewarded at once. Her soul was
agitated by this belief mingled with fear ; with disdain at
not feeling quite happy.
‘Are you content?’ said Steinegge. He stepped
down to the river and dipped in his handkerchief, which
he handed to Edith, who smiled as she wiped her eyes.
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I am content for another
reason too ? ’
She did not reply.
‘ I know that our friend Silla is going away from the
castle. It seems things are not half so serious as we
thought.’
‘Father,’ said Edith, rising, ‘does Don Innocenzo
know what you have just told me ? ’
‘ A little of it, only a little.’
She looked up for an instant at the huge mass of stone
against which she was half leaning, and, standing on tip-
toe, plucked a tiny flower growing out of a cleft. She
placed it inside her locket, and then said to her father, —
‘A souvenir of this spot and of this moment. Tell
me,' she added tenderly, ‘ tell me that you are happy and
that these thoughts came to you naturally. Tell me it
again, father.'
‘Well, here I am,' said a voice from the road.
Edith did not hear him, and sat down on the grass
beside her father. He recognised the voice of Don
Innocenzo, and exclaimed, as he turned towards him,
beaming, —
‘So soon?'
Don Innocenzo saw, understood, and said nothing.
‘Reverend sir,' said Edith, as she and her father
stepped on to the road, ‘you find a different Edith.'
A CLEAR SKY 461
Don Innocenzo assumed an air of innocent surprise,
which sat naturally on him.
‘ Is it possible ? ’ he said, in a tone which implied that
he took the words, a different^ literally.
There were no more questions or explanations. Edith
walked arm-in-arm with her father, her head almost
resting on his shoulder. Don Innocenzo followed, pant-
ing, for the captain was walking at the quick march.
Thus they crossed the meadows in silence. Don
Innocenzo could stand it no longer ; he stopped, out of
breath.
‘ How pretty,* he said, ‘that glimpse of the lake is, is
it not ? *
Perhaps he could hardly see it. The Steinegges
stopped too.
‘Poor Count Caesar!’ said Stemegge to the curate,
gazing at the view. ‘ By the way, have you heard that
Signor Silla leaves the castle this evening ? ’
Edith walked away, and looked at the meadows from
another point of view.
Oh, amorous dalliance of flowers turned towards the
all-powerful sun, of waving grasses shaken by the wind,
what comfort to change with you, to live your transient
life, to feel memory and heart, and the tumultuous flood
of thoughts, the painful anxieties for the future fade
away and die ; to be but dust and sunshine, and in one’s
veins to feel the pulse of spring.
Going up the hill to the parsonage, Edith walked with
downcast eyes in front of the curate and her father, and
she saw their two shadows fall just alongside her on the
path. Steinegge again spoke of the castle, and she
noticed that the curate nodded, after which Steinegge
changed the subject.
I When they got into the house, Marta informed them
462
MALOMBJRA
that dinner would be ready in a few minutes. Edith
asked her for the keys of the church and ran away,
smiling to her father.
The country seemed full of life, everything was moving
and speaking in the breeze , everything was dead in the
cold, empty church, except the lamp upon the high altar.
A faint light spread from the high side windows over the
angels and jovial saints on the roof, praying ecstatically
in their woolly clouds. Edith knelt down at the first
bench and thanked God, offering Him all her heart, all,
all, all; and the more she repeated her devout and
voluntary offering, the more the cold, closed church and
even the stern light of the lamp said to her : ‘ No, you
cannot do so, it is not yours ; you hope that he loves
you still and will return worthy of you, until the day
when you can lean upon his manly arm and face the
world and go through life with him.^ But she would not
have it so, it seemed to be taking back what she had
freely offered, and she felt stealing over her a cold con-
tempt for herself.
Marta came to call her in.
‘ Signora f oh, signora > I am just going to serve up
dinner * The Lord knows already what will be good for
you.'
Edith smiled.
CHAPTER VII
M ALOMBRA
At two o’clock the commendatore and Silla were at work
in the library. They were writing business letters and
telegrams, and making out lists of people to whom cards
announcing the Count’s death should be sent. Vezza
talked unceasingly. Sitting at the Count’s table opposite
to Silla, talking, writing, throwing away one sheet of paper
and taking another, his flow of words only ceased when
he happened to look at his pen or, muttering to himself,
read over again something he had written, or when he
ran his hand over his face and chin, as though to draw
thence some phrase that did not come easily to him.
As he talked he now and then glanced at Silla, and deh-
cately referred to Marina’s mysterious conversation with
him. But Silla either replied in monosyllables or not at
^<all. He was thinking of his interview wuth the poor
Count in the preceding August, the evening after his
arrival at the castle. Ke seemed to hear now the deep
voice and the furious blow with his fist upon the table.
The sun was now striking slantwise into the room from
the windows towards the lake, filling it with a green-gold
light ; and the master of the house was lying in a neigh-
bouring room, lifeless. What a change I He wrote and
463
464
MALOMBRA
wrote, sometimes also throwing away a sheet of paper
to take another, but never re-reading them, though he
occasionally started as he remembered a word left out
or misspelt. He tried to collect his thoughts, and they
kept escaping him.
‘ The telegrams are finished,' said Vezza. ‘ Let us ring
for them to go. Will you be so good? Thank you.
And the letters for the agents and tenants ? One really
ought to write to those at Oleggio. Who knows their
names. I don’t like to go through the books before the
prefect comes from C . What on earth is the man
doing ? Do you know that he plays the organ for them ?
If there happened to be a service, he is quite capable of
not coming till this evening. And on the way he will
probably fish for his supper. Do you notice a close smell
in the room? No? I assure you I am longing to get
to Milan. And may I ask you what your plans
are?'
Silla was rather taken by surprise.
* I ? ' he said.
The footman came in..
‘These telegrams,’ said Vezza, ‘are to go at once.
You see,’ he continued, ‘I wanted to know your plans,
because I might have a suggestion to make.’
‘What is it?’
‘In the meantime we might take a breath of fresh
air.’
They went out into the garden on the terrace. The
wind was blowing across the vineyard, and rushing
wildly through the court, sometimes carrying the water
of the fountain in a curving hne on to the gravel.
‘ How fresh and bright everything is,’ said the com-
mendatore. ‘ One would hardly think that the master
of the house is dead.’
MALOMBRA
465
* I feel he is/ replied Silla.
‘I don’t realise it. But listen. I am requested to
find a teacher of history and Italian literature for a first-
class pnvate school at Milan. Twenty-two hours a week,
two months’ holidays, two thousand two hundred francs
salary. Will you take it ^ ’
Silla held out his hand and thanked him warmly.
‘ But,’ he added, ‘ I have not the qualifications.’
* Oh, that is all right, I will answer for that. But what
on earth are those people there doing ? ’
Those people were the gardener and Fanny, busily
engaged in picking flowers from the beds in front of the
greenhouse, behind which could be seen a glimpse of
blue lake between the left wing of the castle and the green
semi-circular wall of the court.
Vezza waved his hand towards Fanny, who was run-
ning across the court and passed beneath the balcony.
‘ What are you doing ? ’ he said
‘My mistress’s orders,’ replied Fanny, mysteriously,
with arched eyebrows and pouting lip. ‘Don’t you
know ? ’
‘ Why ? For the funeral ? ’
‘ Oh, as if she cared about the funeral. For the din-
ner-party. Why, don’t you know? Did not Signor
Paolo tell you that she ordered a most recherchk dinner?
Indeed, he said in the kitchen that he would do nothing
without an order from you.’
‘ Signora Fanny ! ’ called out the gardener.
‘ I am coming. And do you know where the dinner
is to be? In the loggia. Just think, with this wind.
And I have to stand here picking flowers, though I am
so sensitive to cold.’
‘Signora Fanny!’ the gardener cried out once
more.
466
MALOMBRA
‘Coming — nice affair altogether. Sometimes I (Jo no-
thing but cry. I don’t wish to get like her, with this
rough wind and this burning sun.’
‘ Signora Fanny ! ’ cried the gardener for the third
time, ‘ are you coming, or not ? ’
‘ Coming, coming ! Why I am doing this is because
that man does not understand arranging flowers. Don
Cecchino Pedrati said the same thing ; you may know
him by name, for it’s a well-known family.’
* Well, well, be off,’ said Vezza.
' Fanny went away, calling out to the gardener whether
he did not see that the gentry were talking to her.
The commendatore turned to Silla.
* I must go and mquire about this dinner,’ he said.
‘That brute of a cook never told me anything about
it’
‘ It must not take place,’ said Silla.
‘ I should think not. What did I tell you this morn-
ing? Very far from recovered I And the doctor, when
is he coming ? ’
‘ He ought to be here every minute. He came this
morning a few minutes before she woke up, and said
that he could not get back befoie two. Now Giovanna
is down with fever and in bed.’
‘Signor Silla, said Rico from the library door, ‘the
Signora Donna Marina begs you to be so good as to
give her your company for a moment.’
‘ Now for it,’ thought Vezza. ‘The plot thickens.’
Silla walked into the house, saying nothing.
Rico followed him upstairs and opened the door of
the room with the old escritoire. Manna was standing
the middle of the room, in the light of the open
windows. ‘ Leave the door open,’ she said to the boy,
before turning to Silla. ‘And now go down to the
MALOMBRA
46r
gaxden and help your father and Fanny. Quick ! ' She
stepped out into the passage and stayed there a minute
listening to the boy’s departing footsteps; then she
turned with a piercing glance towards Silla.
She was wearing the same white dress with blue em-
broidery of the evening before; her hair was untidy,
her face livid.
Silla made a deep bow. As he raised his head he
saw her turn her back on him and walk slowly towards
the window. Then she made hastily for the door and
called out, ‘ Rico.’
But the boy was now far away and did not hear. She
then stood still and looked/or the second time at Silla,
saying,—
‘ There is nobody there.’
He could not understand the long, passionate, inquir-
ing glance ; he felt that she had taken in Vezza, but he
remained quite calm.
The light in her eyes suddenly died way.
* Good-evening,’ she said.
Her tone was icy cold.
‘Vezza has spoken to you? ’ she cried.
‘I should have left the castle at once, Marchesina,
if—’
‘I know, I know.’
Silla said no more. The ebony escritoire inlaid with
ivory, and the flowers scattered about the room, recalled
^the terrible story of the night before.
‘ I knowy’ repeated Manna, in a firm, contemptuous
voice, ‘but it is not enough.’ And she took a step
towards Silla.
‘You have heard, then,’ she said, ‘that my feeling for
you was a delusion ? ’
He made a sign in the affirmative. He was some dis-
MALOMBJ^A
468
tance from her, on the other side of the piano. She
suddenly laid her head on the piano, then raised her face
to look at him.
* And you believed it ? ’ she said. * And are ready to
go away ? ’
Silla did not answer.
‘Just so,’ murmured Marina, half-shutting her eyes,
like a cat when it is purring. ‘ Very natural, very simple,
very opportune ! Excellent » ’ she exclaimed, rising.
On the piano was a vase filled with roses and hyacinths.
She took up a handful and flung them on the floor.
‘ To go away is well enough,’ she said, ‘ but it does not
suffice. Do not you feel called upon to make other
sacrifices for me ? ’
There was a bitter note of irony in the quivering
voice.
* I am at your orders, Marchesina,’ replied Silla,
gravely. ‘ Any sacnfice that you desire — ’
‘ Thank you. Then, would you be prepared to write
to Count Salvador ? ’
‘To Count Salvador?’ exclaimed Silla, in surprise.
‘What should I say to him ? ’
‘That you leave this place for ever, and will never
again attempt to see me.’
‘ Is that all ? ’
‘ How good you are,’ said Marina, sotto voce,
‘I can afford to be, to Count Salvador,’ replied Silla,
•coldly. ‘ I awaited his convenience last night, I waited
an hour, and he did not appear.’
‘Ah, you hate him, do you?’ exclaimed Marina, her
eyes flashing.
‘I? No.’
She began walking up and down the room, then she
suddenly stood still, saying, —
MALOMBRA 469
But yesterday you did hate him? Last night at
eleven o’clock ? ’
Silla reflected a moment and replied, —
‘ Marchesina, mine was a delusion too * ’
She laughed long and loudly, a laugh that made Silla’s
blood run cold.
‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I forgive you^everything, and
the affair is at an end.’
‘ Then your ladyship desires nothing further of me ? ’
‘Thanks,’ replied Marina, smiling svreetly. ‘Nothing.
We shall meet again at dinner, shall we not ? You will
dine here? I hope you will,’ she added, seeing Silla
hesitate.
He knew that this dinner would not take place, but he
thought it wiser not to argue with her, and he bowed,
and thanked her for inviting him.
As he was leaving the room, Marina struck the
escritoire with her hand and said, —
‘ Destroyed, you know * ’
As Silla turned round he saw the fair white hand in-
dicating, by a slight gesture, that something had van-
ished ; while the beautiful face nodded at him, smiling.
‘ Better so,’ he said.
He had hardly reached the end of the passage and
the top of the stairs when he heard behind him an
agonised cry. Rushing back to the door of the room he
had just left, he stood still to listen, holding his breath.
He heard the rustle of a dress, then the key turned in
the lock. Silla walked away, and went downstairs greatly
troubled.
It was Marina who had uttered that cry, afterwards
locking the door. She struck her forehead with her
fist to quell her agitation, opened the escritoire, took out
the manuscript, and making an incision in her right arm
470
MALOUmA
wrote, with her own blood, underneath the last words of
Cecilia . —
‘ C’est ceci qui’ a fait cela
*3 Mai 1865.
‘ Marquise de Malombra,
‘ jadis Comtesse Varrega*’
After this she pulled out one of the drawers and took
out a very handsome case of pistols, made of leather,
with the arms of the Malombra family, on a field azure
a comet argent, on a canton sable a fleur de lys argent.
‘You know,’ she said, speaking to the weapons, ‘he
was ready to go. He did not see that my question was
a test’
In the library he found Vezza, who was closely scanning
the rows of books with the eye of a connoisseur. Silla
gave him an account of his interview with Donna Marina,
and of the courteous words with which she closed it, and
the cry which he heard m the passage ; he added that he
had not dechned her invitation, having regard to the
caution which her condition of mind demanded. He
considered it a case for the most careful medical treat-
ment; and he suggested telegraphing to her relations at
Milan with a view to her speedy removal from the castle,
which was the worst possible place for her to stay in.
Vezza agreed to this, mentioning that he had postponed
the preparations for dinner, and that he counted on the
doctor to persuade Donna Marina of the advisability of
abandoning the idea. While he was saying this the
doctor appeared.
The latter listened to the account of the state of com-
parative calm in which the Marchioness had appeared to
be on waking, and agreed to exert his influence to get her
MALOMBRA
471
to give up the dinner-party. He promised to return and
give an account of his mission.
He was away a long time. On his return his face was
dark with gloomy forebodings,
‘ Well ? ’ asked Vezza.
The doctor looked towards Silla, and hesitated.
‘ You can speak freely/ observed Vezza
‘Well, gentlemen, I speak as a medical man, without
respect of persons, and I say the situation is serious, and
it depends on you that it shall not become more so.’
‘ Dear me 1 ’ said Vezza. ‘ To think that this morning
she was so composed.’
* Oh ! I found her calm enough. And at first I was
astonished and reassured, a minute later I no longer
liked that composed manner of hers. You see, after the
nervous exhaustion of last night, this lady ought to be
absolutely prostrated. But no, we have only the extra-
ordinary pallor and the livid circles round the eyes.
Every other symptom of weariness or depression is absent.
The breathing is regular, the pulse a hundred to the
minute. Here, I said to myself, the nervous excitement
is still present , this calm is not natural, but is induced
by force of will ; and the internal struggle probably
accentuates some of the nervous symptoms, such as the
rapid pulse, for example. I approached the subject,
telling her that she was in need of repose, that she would
do well to spend one day in absolute quiet, and not
leave her room, not even for dinner. Ah ! ’
Here the doctor waved his arms about, as though
language failed him for the rest of his narrative.
5 1 confess that I have never seen such eyes. In half
a second they looked twice their size. She assailed me
with the most vehement language. Though, if I must
tell the truth, she inveighed more bitterly against you
472
MALOMBRA
than against me, having understood, with the cunning of
the monomaniac, that I must have spoken to you. It is
clear that she suspected opposition. She said that people
want to bully her, that she will take lessons from nobody,
that she is sorry she has not invited fifty people ; and so
on, and so on, with a passion which seemed to choke her
and made her tremble like a leaf. I endeavoured to
appease her. Without the slightest effect ; she only be-
came the more angry. At length I was obliged to pro-
mise her that everything would be done as she desired,
even adding that I would stay to dinner too. Believe
me, gentlemen, we must act on these lines. I would
advise nobody to thwart a woman who has just passed
through a crisis like that of last night, and who shows
such dangerous signs of a relapse.’
‘ And so ? ’ inquired Vezza.
‘And so I, for my part,’ replied the doctor, firmly,
‘should do everything she wishes, even though it may go
somewhat against the grain.’
‘And if we two absented ourselves — ?’
* I tell you I would not do so.’
The commendatore looked inquiringly at Silla.
‘For my part,’ said the latter, ‘I will take no part in
the affair. You may tell her that, feeling indisposed, I
am not inclined for dinner, and also that I am still busy
with these letters. Better still, I might leave before
dinner. For the rest, doctor, suppose that until to-night
Donna Marina has been under the influence of a great
mental shock, and that now, from one cause or another,
she has thown it off, will not you admit that her agitated
nerves, although regaining tone, will still vibrate for some
little time? Won’t you admit that, though the cause of
the malady may have been removed, a relapse is not
altogether improbable ? ’
MALOMBRA 473
The doctor looked at Silla for some time before re-
plying.
‘ My view,* he said, * is, that even if the cause of the
malady has been removed it would by no means follow
that one can now afford to irritate this lady, whose
nerves, as you remark, are still greatly agitated j a lady,
by the way, unhappily predisposed to hallucinations.
But the question is, is she free from them now ? *
‘ It would seem so,* rephed Silla. ‘ Or at least there
is some reason to hope so. She herself says so at least*
‘And I, pardon me,* said the doctor, ‘have my
doubts.*
The other two looked at him anxiously, in silence.
‘ I was just leaving her room,* he said ; ‘ I was in fact
at the door when she called me back. “Come here,
doctor.** And stepping up to me she uncovered her
left forearm, saying, “ Do you wish to see some terrible
wounds ? ** And, showing me two or three pin-pricks,
she adds, “ Can one die of these ? *’ Not understanding,
I only looked at her. “You hardly believe,** she goes on,
“that a soul can pass through theie? And yet I assure
you,** she says, “ that it has begun ; a thought and a
secret have already gone out.*^ This is what she said. I
appeal to you, gentlemen, whether these wild words do
not arouse the suspicion that there still exists that morbid
state of mind of which this gentleman spoke. For the
rest, we must adopt decisive measures on behalf of this
lady, and that quickly. She must not remain here.*
‘We must see to it,* replied Vezza. ‘Are you now
going to see Giovanna? *
‘ I am.*
‘ And we shall meet again at five ? *
‘ Yes, and I am glad to think you will be here.*
‘ I shall leave at five,* said Silla.
474
MALOMBRA
The commendatore seemed anything but pleased.
‘At what time/ he inquired, ‘ is the last train from
to Milan ? ’
*At half-past nine.’
* Oh, then you need not leave till after six, and can
stay and see how the dinner goes off.’
The doctor went out. The other two sat down again
and went on with their writing.
The wind contmued to whistle and howl, the waves
raged round the castle, a wild audience waiting furiously
impatient for a drama that did not begin. Round the
old impassive walls there had been let loose fierce forces
which desired that the curtain should rise at once, which
desired to witness the suffering, if possible the death, of
one of those haughty kinglets of the earth. What was
one waiting for? The waves dashed against, and
mocked at, the old castle; leapt upon the rock be-
n^th the loggia, stormed along the shore, and rose
in a long line one behind the other, in a wild uproar
of furious clamour. The wind rushed to the right, to
the left, from top to bottom, madly, furiously; passed
and repassed shrieking through the loggia, hurling in-
sults at the absent actors. The solemn cypresses, too,
shook their heads, the vines rustled, the mulberry trees
and the gentle olives scattered about the meadows, seized
by the same frenzy, shook and waved their arms. The
mountains looked sternly on. But the stage remained
silent, the actors still kept in hiding.
After three o’clock, with the wind still blowing
furiously, Fanny, the footman, the gardener and Rico
entered the loggia, and standing under the arches to-
wards the lake, took a glance at the sky, at the moun-
tains, at the waves raging down below, which roared
MALOMBRA
475
back at them — ‘No, no, not you/ The four seemed
to confer together. Fanny went out by the door on
the right, shaking her right hand with an imprecation
against heaven and earth ; the others remained behind.
She soon returned, probably with her mistress’s orders,
and the three other servants gathered round her. Then
they all went out, returning with a large dark carpet,
almost black, which they spread out from the three
arches at the back of the loggia to three of the five in
front, leaving exposed, on the right and left, two shining
strips of pavement. The gardener, assisted by his son
and two odd-job-men, brought from the garden two
barrows full of camellias, azaleas, cinerarias, cal-
ceolarias and four large foliage plants. Two rustic
flower-stands were also brought up and placed on either
side of the loggia between the two doors and the bal-
cony at the back. Fanny and the footman came m
carrying three little tables, four chairs covered in
crimson, and an elegant gilt jardinihre, a gift from
Signora Giulia de Bella, which Marina had received two
weeks before. Lastly, Donna Marina herself, closely
wrapped in her white shawl, which showed the graceful
lines of her figure, entered with a slow, careless step,
stopped before the central arch and began giving her
orders without raising a finger, simply indicating things
and places by a turn and a look.
The shadow of the woody hillside to the west of the
castle spread rapidly towards the east. The wind died
away, the waves ceased their uproar, as though they had
noticed that Marina was on the stage.
She remained there until her orders were in a fair way
of being carried out, then she withdrew, signing to Rico
to follow her.
It was a luxurious and elegant scene, like a finished
476
MALOMBRA
painting, framed by the stern pillars and the frowning
outline of the loggia. At the corners, the foliage plants
rose like green sprays from the huge azaleas in flower
which were grouped round their feet, sending into the air
a shower of fine curving leaves, then falling back in grace-
ful lines. To the right and left, from the two flower-
stands laden with cinerarias and calceolarias, two
streams of varied colour descended to the dark carpet.
Six large pots of camellias standing on the back bal-
cony formed the background of the scene. The largest
of the tables, with two covers, stood near the middle
arch; the others, with one cover each, were placed
obliquely to the central table on either side of it, facing
each other. Yellowish grey Flemish table-cloths covered
all three tables down to the floor, introducing into that
gay medley of colours three quiet, solemn tones, which
even modified the brightness of the cut-glass and silver.
Towards the centre, Donna Giulia^s gilt jardiniere dis-
played against the dark background of the carpet a
delicate show of graceful hyacinths, stripped of all green,
and lapped in tiie gleam of the metal, tempting the
palate like an aromatic sweet, and promising voluptuous
delights.
*To gentlefolks and mad people the wind is obedient,’
said Fanny, who had expected every moment to see the
whole arrangement upside down.
A few minutes after half-past four the commendatore
and Silla came on to the loggia from the library ; almost
at the same time the doctor appeared from the opposite
side. All stood still in astonishment at the elegance of
the scene, and the rich display of colours above the
sombre carpet.
* All her doing, you know,’ said Vezza, who was more
alarmed than surprised.
MALOMBRA
477
Yes, it was she who had arranged everything, and it
formed a reflection of her own nature ; a black heart, a
glowing imagination, an intellect shaken but not over-
turned.
* I am going back to the library,’ said Silla. ‘ I shall
finish writing those addresses, then I am off by the secret
staircase.’
‘ No, no, I beg of you * ’ exclaimed Vezza. ‘ If you are
determined not to dine with us, at least keep within call.
I feel quite feverish, I assure you. Have we done wrong,
doctor, to give way to her? I have had to tell the
servants it was done by your orders, to humour Donna
Marina. Like a good fellow, Silla, sit in there, in the
dining-room. Do me this favour.’
‘Very well,’ replied Silla, ‘I will take my work
there ; but, remember, as soon as dinner is over I am
off.’
The doctor was in a great state of agitation ; he justified
the advice he had given, offering a number of reasons,
good and bad. It was evident that he suspected he had
made a mistake.
‘ You see, I did not know everything this morning,’ he
said. ‘ I had not spoken to Giovanna.’
He motioned to the other two to come nearer.
‘ Do you know on what terms she was with the poor
Count?’
They knew, and did not know. The conversation
proceeded sotto wee,
Silla glanced at the clock ; it was a quarter to five.
He went into the library for his papers, and then crossed
over into the dining-room to work.
The other two, as they stood talking, noticed the jollj»-
boat passing beneath the loggia, rowed by Rico,
j * "V^ither away ? ’ called out Vezza.
473
MALOMBI^A
*To R . Signora Donna Marina’s orders!’ he
replied.
* He ought to have spoken to me before obeying them,’
growled the commendatore, and then resumed what he
was saying.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is my idea of the telegram.
Remember that the addressee is kind-hearted and most
conscientious, but somewhat slow to move or to take
decisive measures. So I shall write thus : ‘ By express
desire medical attendant, with view relieve me grave
responsibility, inform you nearest relation Signora di
Malombra health demands speedy removal this house.’
‘Put immediate^^ said the doctor,
‘I will put immediate^
‘And put also — ’
The doctor could not finish the sentence, because
Donna Marina appeared in the doorway.
She wore a dress ordered from her old Parisian dress-
maker, who was well acquainted with her strange fancies ;
a handsome, curious dress of dark blue moire antique
with a blue train, above which, up her right side, shot
a long comet embroidered in silver. In front of the
tightly-laced and elegant waist was inserted a high,
narrow shield of black velvet, boldly pierced in the
centre with the design of a lily, over the white skin.
Marina was no longer so pale; a light, hectic glow
coloured her cheeks ; her eyes flashed like diamonds.
‘Music,’ she said, smiling and looking towards the
lake; ‘the music that >ou like, beloved lake! Isn’t it
true, Vezza, that music is as hypocritical as an old Jew,
and always tells us what our heart desires ? Isn’t that
the reason why it has so many friends ? ’
‘ Marchesina,’ he replied, affecting a careless air,
‘outside ourselves there is no music, but only wind.
MALOMBRA 47 ^
The chords are within us, and resound according to the
weather that there is there.*
‘With you it is always fine, eh? A universal calm;
and those waves say to you, how pleasant it is to laugh,
what a nice place to dance in ! Where is Signor Silla ?
‘ Ah ! — * began Vezza, embarrassed.
‘Not gone’* exclaimed Donna Manna, fiercely, seiz-
ing hold of him by the arm and pressing it hard.
‘No, no, no; he is here,* he hastened to reply, ‘but
I am to offer his excuses. He is not feeling well, he
could not eat any dinner ; and as he has had the kind-
ness to offer me his assistance in some urgent business,
he is just now — *
She did not allow him to finish, but inquired im-
periously, —
‘Where is he?*
Her voice shook.
‘Well,* replied the commendatore, stammering, ‘I
hardly know — some time ago he was in the library — *
‘ Go and say that we are waiting for him.*
‘ He is in the dining-room,* said the doctor. ‘ He is
writing. I would beg your ladyship to accept his
excuses.*
She reflected a moment, and then replied in resonant
tones, —
‘Your word of honour that he is in the dining-room 1 *
‘ My word of honour,*
‘Very well,* she said, appeased; ‘he will come later
on without being sent for. For the rest, dear Vezza,
with me it is cloudy, melancholy weather. Tell me,
doctor, is not melancholy a disease ? Does it not make
the flame of life burn low ? You would give me cordials
if you felt that my blood was coursing too slowly ; some
sinister form of alcohol in disguise. But if, instead,
480
MALQMBRA
I take the life-giving spirits of the flowers, and fresh air,
and the conversation of equable natures like our friend
Vezza, and of men skilled in soothing suffering, like
yourself, who is to blame me? There, gentlemen, is
the hidden meaning of this dinner , and let us dine.
You here, Vezza, close to me ; and you, doctor, there, on
my right ^
The dinner began.
The guests of Donna Marina were silent, and hardly
touched the various courses. The commendatore
secretly deplored that an excellent dinner, exquisitely
and tastefully served, given by a young and beautiful
woman, had fallen to his share at an awkward moment
and under circumstances which prevented his enjoying
it either physically or intellectually. He played with
the only pleasant idea which presented itself to him,
that of describing this scene in Milan dining-rooms
with skill, his mind at rest He looked cautiously
about him, learning by heart the foliage plants and the
azaleas, the falhng showers of cinerarias and calceolarias,
and glanced sideways at his hostess’s dress, and, as far
as he dared, at the white lily in the velvet shield. But
the inquisitive eyes of the flowers, ranged along the
flower-stands as in a theatre, told him that the drama
was not yet finished.
The doctor watched Marina unceasingly, fearing a
paroxysm similar to that of the preceding evening, or of
the one when she first entered the Count’s room. He
was in readiness, and watched narrowly, without appear-
ing to do so, her every movement. He only now
grasped the importance which Marina attached to this
banquet, and he reproached himself with having become
a party to it He was unable to ward off gloomy pre-
sentiments. The very spot, open alike to the courtyard
MALOMBRA
481
and the lake, alarmed him. So did the growing ex-
citement of Marina, who after a spoonful of soup had
eaten nothing.
‘ What a silence ! * she said at length. ‘ I seem to be
among the shades. Am I like Proserpine ? ^
‘ Oh ! ’ replied the commendatore, m amazement, ‘ you
would bring all the dead back to life.’
Suddenly he remembered the man with the distorted
face who was lying beneath a sheet a few paces from the
loggia, and a shiver ran through him.
‘And yet,’ rejoined Marina, ‘my guests are as melan-
choly as the judges of the infernal regions. Give me
some Bordeaux,’ she said to the old butler, who was
waiting alone, more mournful even than her guests, ‘ and
to these gentlemen also.’
The butler obeyed. Devoted to the poor Count,
whom he had served for twenty-two years, this meal was
a torture to him. He poured out the wine with a
trembling hand, making the neck of the bottle clink
against the edge of the glass.
‘I beg you to taste this wine,’ said Marina. ‘Just
think of it, now I Do you not notice a distant flavour
of Acheron ? ’
The commendatore raised his glass, took the bouquet
of the wine, touched the glass with his lips, and said, —
‘ There is something unusual.’
‘ Let us suppose then, Commendatore Radamanthus,’
said Marina, in an agitated voice, the comers of her
mouth twitching convulsively, ‘that for certain reasons
of my own I have thought well — ’
She fell back in her chair, pursing up her lips, and
with her hand making a gesture as of one who con-
temptuously casts away some low thing.
‘ You see,’ she said, ‘ this life is such a low thing I
2 H
MALOMBRA
482
Suppose then that I have decided to open the gate and
to go out when the sun dies, in the midst of my flowers,
and taking with me a few witty friends in case the
journey "should prove too long. Suppose that in that
Bordeaux — ’
Vezza started, and looked at the butler standing im-
passively near the door on the left.
‘OhT exclaimed Marina, ‘how quickly you believe
me r
She called for more wine and raised the glass to her
lips,
' An unusual taste ? ’ she said. ‘ Suppose it is pure, this
Bordeaux, as an Am Maria ! It was a jest of Proser-
pine’s. Drink,’ she continued excitedly, ‘ Knights of the
Woful Countenance. Pluck up heart and spirit 1 ’
The doctor did not drink. He knew that a storm was
coming. Vezza, on the other hand, obeyed Donna
Marina’s bidding and emptied his glass,
‘ Bravo I ’ said she, turning pale, ‘ Take inspiration
for a difficult reply.’
‘From Proserpine to a Sphinx, Marchesina?’
‘ To a Sphinx, yes, and soon perhaps to become stone,
or colder still. But first let her speak and explain all.’
‘ Therefore — ’
She had turned more and more livid. At this moment
a tremor running through her whole frame stopped
further utterance. The two men rose to their feet. She
caught up a knife, and furiously drove its point into the
table.
^Calm yourself, calm yourself,’ said the doctor, taking
hold of one ice-cold hand and bending over her. She
had already mastered herself ; she thrust away the doctor’s
hand and got up,
‘Airl’ she said,
MALOMBRA 483
She passed between her table and the doctor's, and
rushed on to the balcony above the lake.
The doctor was upon her in a moment, to seize and
restrain her.
But she had already turned round and faced Vezza
with two flashing eyes.
‘ Well,' she exclaimed, hastening to talk and so cause
her momentary weakness to be forgotten, ‘ do you think
that a human soul can live more than once upon the
earth ? '
And since Vezza, amazed and alarmed, said nothing,
she cried out to him, —
‘ Answer ! '
‘No, hardly, no, hardly,' he said.
‘Yes, I tell you ! It can ! '
They held their breath. The gardener, the cook, and
Fanny, on a hint from the butler, hastily ascended the
stairs to listen, and to peep through the keyhole. The
wind had died away ; the slow waves whispered against
the foot of the walls. Listen, listen !
Through the silence there resounded once more the
voice of Marina.
‘ Sixty years ago, the father of the dead man there (she
pointed with ^her forefinger towards the wing of the
castle) imprisoned in this house, like a wolf with hydro-
phobia, his first wife, and did her to death by inches. This
woman has returned from the tomb to avenge herself on
the accursed race which has commanded here until to-
night ! '
She kept her eyes fixed on the door to the right, which
was open because they had placed a sideboard in the
adjoining room.
‘ Marchesina • ' said the doctor, in a tone of wild rebuke.
‘ But, really ! why do you say such things ? '
MALOMBRA
484
At the- same time he seized ^her left arm in his iron
grasp.
‘ There are people outside ! ' cried Marina. ‘ Come in,
come in, all of you ! ’
Fanny and the others fled, only to return immediately
on tiptoe to peep in, keeping out of sight.
Silla came to the door of the dining-room. He could
not see Marina, but he heard everything. Now she was
saying,—
‘ Come in ! He does not come because he knows the
story. But he does not know all, he does not know all ;
I shall have to tell him the end. Returned from the
tomb, this is my banquet of victory.’
Her voice suddenly died away. She flung her arms
round the pillar against which she was standing, laid her
forehead against it, shaking her head vehemently as
though she wished to drive it in, and uttered a long,
hoarse, passionate groan, fit to freeze the blood of who-
ever heard it.
‘ The nurse, the woman who came last night ! ’ said the
doctor, in a loud tone in the direction of the door , then
he turned round to Marina, on whose arm he carefully
kept a hold.
* Come, Marchesina,’ he said gently, ‘ you are right,
but be good and come away ; don’t say these things which
upset you so much.’
She raised her head, and with her right hand arranged
the disordered hair upon her brow, her eager glance still
flashing through the doorway into the dark room beyond.
On her heaving bosom the lily rose and fell; it seemed to
be strugghng to open out. The gardener’s wife appeared
in the door. Marina, with a violent wave of her free arm,
signed to her to be oflf, and said to the doctor, speaking
more by gesture than words, —
MALOMBRA 485
* Yes, let us be going, let us go into the dining-room.'
‘ Would not your own room, perhaps, be better ? '
* No, no, to the dining-room. But let go my arm.'
She uttered the last words with so dignified and
haughty an air that the doctor obeyed, contenting him-
self with following her. His one consuming idea at that
moment was to get her away from the balcony.
Marina walked slowly away, keeping her right hand in
the pocket of her dress. Vezza and the butler gazed
stupidly after her. The doctor, who was following be-
hind her, stopped for a moment to give an order to the
nurse. Meanwhile Marina reached the door.
Fanny, the cook and the gardener had drawn on one
side to allow her to pass without her seeing them. In
the dining-room the Venetian blinds were half closed and
the curtains drawn.
Silla was standing near the dining-room door. He saw
Marina coming, and for a moment hesitated. He knew
not whether to step forwards or on one side, or to with-
draw inside the room. She took two rapid steps towards
him, said, ‘Oh, hon voyage/^ and raised her right hand.
A pistol shot flashed and rang out. Silla fell. Fanny
fled shrieking ; the doctor sprang into the room, and call-
ing out to the men, ‘ Hold her,' flung himself down by the
wounded man.
Vezza, the butler, and the other woman, all calling out
together, came rushing in to see who was the victim.
The gardener and the cook cried out, each urging the
other to lay hold of Marina, who, turning back, passed
through the crowd with the smoking pistol in her hand,
without anyone daring to lay a finger on her, and crossing
the loggia, passed through the opposite door, locking it
behind her. All this happened in less than two minutes.
The gardener and the butler, feeling ashamed of them-
MALOMBJiA
486
selves, flung themselves against the door and broke it in
by sheer weight. The passage was empty. They stood
still, hesitating, expecting a shot, a bullet in the chest,
perhaps.
‘ Forwards, you cowards 1 ’ cried the doctor, dashing
between them. In the corridor he stopped to listen.
Not a sound.
‘Stay where you are,’ he said, and hastened into the
Count’s bedroom.
Empty. The candles were burning peacefully. They
went in ; he into her bedroom, the others into the room
with the old escritoire.
Empty.
The doctor ran his hands through his hair and cried
out furiously, —
‘ Accursed cowards • ’
‘To the library ! ’ said the gardener.
They rushed downstairs, the doctor going first. On
reaching the passage they heard a great shouting, and
made out the voice of the commendatore, who was calling
out, ‘ The boat ^ the boat ! ’ He ran out on to the loggia
and leant out over the lake.
Marina, alone in her outrigger, was passing below,
making for the open, steering towards the east.
On the seat, by the helm, could be seen the pistol.
‘ To the boat ! ’ said the doctor,
Vezza called out behind him, —
‘ By the secret staircase ! ’
They went down the secret staircase. The doctor
slipped and rolled down to the bottom; but he was
quickly on his feet, in time to hear an imprecation from
the gardener, who suddenly stood still on the steps.
‘ The boat is not there,’ he said. ‘ She sent it off with
Rico before dinner.’ ^
MALOMBRA
* It may ba back ! ’ cried out the doctor, and
tremblingly pushed open the boat-house door.
Empty. The chains of the two boats hung down
above the water.
It was a knock-down blow. In the neighbourhood, as
he knew well, there were no other boats.
‘ Gardener ! ’ he said. ‘ To the village ! A boat and
some men 1 ’
The gardener disappeared through the little gate in
the courtyard.
‘ Good God ! Good God I ’ exclaimed the doctor,
raising his hands.
The others kept on calling from the loggia, * Quick !
quick ! ^
And now the gardener comes back running.
‘Is the priest required as well?’ he asked. The
doctor shook his fist m his face.
‘Stupid fellow! Don’t you see that I have come
away ? ’
The man did not quite grasp the situation, but went
away, and the doctor ran upstairs.
A window at the top of the house was thrown open,
and a feeble voice inquired, —
‘ What is it ? What has happened ? ’
It was Giovanna.
Somebody replied from the courtyard, —
‘What has happened is that they have killed Signor
Silla.’
‘ Oh, holy Virgin ‘ ’ said she.
The gardener was heard calling out in the distance.
Other voices replied. The step of a peasant was heard
bounding up the stone steps ; another one followed. An
inquisitive crowd assembled, as though some electric
current had spread the news. The master of the house
MALOMBRA
was dead ; they walked boldly indoors. Some boys, too,
passed through the gate of the courtyard, slipped into
the house and went upstairs. They intended to go into
the dining-room, knowing that the dead man was there.
The doctor, who had gone in a moment before, came out.
‘Be off!’ he cried in a terrible voice.
The boys ran away.
He turned to speak to someone inside the room.
^ How long is the Prefect going to leave us all alone ? '
Then he closed the door.
Vezza and the others crowded breathlessly about him.
‘ Oh ! ’ he said. ‘ Did I not say so before ? Through
the heart.’ One of the dining-room windows had been
thrown open. He hurried towards it, everybody follow-
ing him, silent and troubled; Vezza, the servants, the
two peasants. The other window was open also. The
Dart was already far away, at the end of a slanting track
traced on the calm lake. Marina was distinctly visible ;
they could see the occasional glint of the oars. Vezza,
who was short-sighted, said, —
‘She has stopped.’
She did not in fact seem to make any headway.
‘No, no,’ replied the others.
One of the peasants, a soldier on leave, who had
jumped on to a seat to see better, said, —
‘With a carbine I could bring her down.’
Fanny retired sobbing, then she turned round again to
look.
‘But, in Heaven’s name, where is she going?’ ex-
claimed the doctor.
Nobody answered.
A minute later the peasant standing on the seat said, —
‘ She is going to Val Malombra. She is in a direct line
for the valley.’
MALOMBRA
489
Fanny again began to scream. The doctor caught
hold of her arm, dragged her away and commanded her
to be silent.
* Why to Val Malombra? ’ said he.
^ There is a pathway over the mountains/ replied the
other, ‘which leads down to the high road.^
‘One cannot get on to that path from the bank of
Val Malombra/ observed the second peasant.
‘ Yes, one can. You only have to go on to the Well
of Acquafonda ; a matter of five minutes.’
‘ There they are ! ’ cried the gardener's wife.
A four-oared boat issued rapidly from the bay at
R to cut off the Dart
The doctor put his hands to his mouth, shouting out, —
‘ Quickly ' ’
‘ Will they catch her ? ’ asked the commendatore.
‘Not on the water,' was the reply. ‘In a few strokes
her boat will be on shore ; the others will take ten
minutes.’
The Dart was approaching the narrow, gloomy en-
trance of Val Malombra, The big boat was opposite
the castle. Suddenly two of the men let go their oars
and ran to the end of the boat, shouting out something,
one could not hear what.
‘ A boat ! ’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘ Stop her 1 ’ he
called with all hhPmiight, ‘ stop the outrigger ! ’
Then he turned to the two peasants.
‘ It is the Prefect. All of you run to the bottom of
the garden ! And shout ! '
Again he shouted out, syllable by syllable, —
‘ Murder ! Stop the outrigger I ’
Another boat had indeed appeared, coming towards
the castle from the east, and passing within gunshot of
the Dart In spite of the desperate cries from the big
490
MALOMBRA
boat and from the castle, this boat held on tranquilly
on its own course.
‘They don’t hear,’ said the doctor; ‘shout all to-
gether in the name of Heaven ! ’
He made one desperate, final effort.
Vezza, the servants and the women shouted with
strained, helpless voices, —
‘Stop the outrigger ' ’
The boat held on its course.
The Dart disappeared.
CHAPTER VIII
LOVED AT LAST
A BLACK shadow appeared in the doorway of Don
Innocenzo’s study ; a voice said, —
‘ Nothing/
Not recognising the voice, he held up the lamp
* Nothing ? ^ he asked.
‘Nothing,* repeated Steinegge.
Both rose hastily and approached the door.
‘There were six men,* said the Mayor, with true
Lombardy stolidity. ‘Four national guards and two
carabaniers. They went through the wood. The men
from the boat would have found her if she had been
there. It is easy to see where she is.*
Steinegge, by a piteous gesture, begged him to be
silent. The Mayor followed the other two men into the
garden, and they then whispered something in his car.
*Ah!*he said.
He had failed to see somebody else sitting in a corner
of the study. She had not stirred or spoken, but now
she rose and approached the door, where the light of a
tiny lamp was lost in the sombre night. ‘Some say,*
remarked the Mayor, moving towards the door, ‘that
she took to the mountains. Why should she ? Where
would she go to ? I have no doubt at all but that she
is lying, as still as a stone, in the Well of Acquafonda.*
491
492
MALOMBJRA
Edith heard no more. They turned the corner, and
there was talking in the kitchen. She went out into the
garden and sat on the little wall Many village gossips,
friends of Manna, were talking in the kitchen.
'Idiots,’ said a harsh voice, ‘don’t you understand
that she has always been mad, worse than the other one
almost? He was her lover, and they were discovered
together at night in the garden. The old doctor told us
that. Now he was going to desert her, and in two seconds
she did the deed. One sees similar scandals in the
papers, lots of them ’ ’
‘ Deary me ! ’ said another. ‘ How di’d she come by
the pistol ? ’
‘Always had them. Anyhow, since August; the gar-
dener saw her firing at the statues.’
‘The doctor,’ chimed in a third, ‘ was afraid she would
kill him, never thought it was the other man.’
‘He didn’t know the whole story. They say she’s
in Acquafonda., Hardly credible, eh? They haven’t
caught her. A walker like her I I’ve seen her tearing
through the woods 1 Who can guess where she is ? If
she fell in with those gipsies, as likely as not she would
join them.’
The others thought it would be better to drag Acqua-
fonda. But the depth was too great, and the well was
full of jutting bits of rock.
Meanwhile, the Mayor, the curate, and Steinegge
returned, talking. They could not help seeing Edith.
‘No doubt about it,’ said the Mayor ; ‘if she was mad,
he was slightly touched too. A curious thing to come
here to flirt with Donna Marina, when the Count was
dying and she was going to marry another man. Only
last night the^ Prefect said she was quite right to act as
she did.’
LOVED AT LAST
493
Steinegge thought it better that Edith should hear
these things, having been led to hope that she was not
seriously attached to Silla.
‘I have been deceived too,’ he said, ‘He was a
singularly attractive man, better in words than deeds. I
don’t believe he was in love with the March esina di
Malombra or anyone else. I have known a good many
of these literary men. They are all the same. They fall
in love, now here, now there ; with them it is a kind of
nervous disease. Some time ago he comes to the castle,
another day he leaves it, who knows where he would
have gone to-morrow ? ’
‘ Well, well,’ said Don Innocenzo, ^J)arce sepdto^
* Did you hear about the letter ? ’ said the Mayor.
‘ What letter ? ’
* That is the interesting point. Vezza searched Silk’s
clothes and found a letter beginning “ Dear Uncle,” and
then something that seemed like a will. Pie seemed to
know he was going to die a violent death. How do you
explain that?’
* He had been threatened?’ suggested the curate,
‘ A very unpleasant business,’ said the Mayor, sum-
ming up. ‘ To be an honest man is no small thing, eh,
your reverence? Difficult to understand occurrences
like these.’
‘ Judge no man,’ he replied.
The Mayor soon took his leave, the others going with
him to the gate. Steinegge then slipped his arm through
Don Innocenzo’s.
‘ Poor Edith, poor Edith,’ he said.
‘ Do not be afraid, Edith is strong, with a strength
that conquers death,’
‘ But she will suffer. Do not you think that she was
veiy fond of him ? Tell me honestly what you think.’
494
MALOMBJ^A
Luckily it was dark, and Steinegge could not see what
Don Innocenzo really felt.
'I think not,' he said, ‘I hope not. She had not
known him long. I hope she will soon forget everything
like a bad dream. That was a good idea of yours, to
leave to-morrow. I am sorry, but you ought to go.
Don't refer to the subject at Milan, and now say no
more about it.'
They went towards Edith, walking slowly, in silence.
They stopped on getting opposite the hall door.
‘ Ah,' said Steinegge, ‘ I thought — '
‘ Not here, father.'
^ I think you ought to go indoors.'
She rose, silently embraced him, and went into the
dining-room and sat down, Steinegge and the curate
sat down too, silently watching the flicker of the lamp-
light. The voices in the kitchen died away. Marta's
friends passed into the garden, like the slides of a magic
lantern. The grasshoppers chirped and the frogs croaked
in the meadows below.
‘ What time did you tell the coachman to call?' asked
Edith.
‘At 5.30, dear, for the 8 o'clock train.'
* And now what time is it ? '
‘Ten.'
A quarter of an hour later Marta came in to see if
people were going to bed, and went out silently on tip-
toe. Then she put in her head and asked whether she
should close the shutters.
‘ No, no,' replied Edith.
‘ Isn't it rather damp ? ' said Steinegge.
‘Not at this height,' was the reply.
But did Edith care if it was damp? Through the
door could be seen a patch of blue sky, bright with stars.
Stars, abodes of peace, how distant from us, whose
comfort and hope ye are. How keenly does the pure
soul feel who gazes at you the miserable vanity of many
things which seem great by daylight, and the sublime
beauty of death < Never-ending path by which souls
ceaselessly rise to higher forms of life, fiom splendour to
splendour, how greatly do unhappy spirits yearn for the
night to remove the blind glare which shuts out from our
view your shining habitations. Then does the soul grow
faint with desire, thinking of the gentle, pitiful welcome
which awaits him there, at the hands of loving hearts,
which know the mystery of pain and the thoughts of men,
and view our faults in silence, because a high, inflexible
Being so wills it.
Marta went through the kitchen, loudly shutting the
doors, coughing, lighting the candles and banging them
down on the table. Then Edith broke the silence.
‘You must be tired, father,’ she said, ‘and to-morrow
you have to be up early.’
Steinegge was moved at hearing the calm tone in which
the sweet voice spoke.
‘ Yes, I think I will go to bed,’ he said. ‘ I have a few
things to say to the curate to-morrow before leaving.’
The curate called out to Marta to bring a lamp and
to place the keys of the church on the dining-room table
before retiring to bed.
Edith did not stir.
‘Are not you coming?’ said Steinegge.
She said she was not sleepy and wanted to have a few
minutes with Don Innocenzo, alone. Her father mildly
protested at being sent off to bed.
‘ But you require rest,’ she said.
After a moving ferewell, he took a candle and went up
stairs, as though advancing sword in hand against the foe.
496
MALOMBRA
Marta handed a candle to her master, but he dismissed
her, telling her to go to bed.
As the sound of her departing footsteps died away,
Edith clasped her hands and looked at the curate.
* God has heard you,* he said ; ‘ he has accepted your
sacrifice.*
She looked at him silently, with tears in her eyes.
Then in choking tones she added, —
‘ Nor to be able to defend him I *
After a moment’s silence, —
My father, too. So unjust to him ! *
* Not unjust 1 * Don Innocenzo endeavoured to say.
She raised a hand without speaking, then she caught
hold of the back of the sofa, clutching it nervously, and,
biting her lips, choked down a sob.
* Come here,’ she said.
The curate, who had a choking sensation too, sat down
on the sofa beside her.
* Do not let us talk of that matter,* he said. * Let us
talk about the good news your father brought. The
rest has all been a bad dream, which we had better
forget.*
‘No,* said Edith, passionately, ‘did not you tell me
yesterday that I was to keep him in my heart ? And
now that everyone attacks him and insults him, and he
cannot speak a word in his own defence, who could
have said so much, am I to forget and abandon him,
even in thought? Never while I live, and I trust that
he knows this in the better world where he now is.
He without fine feeling ! Listen ! *
The curate turned towards her.
‘I would that you had known him as I knew him.
He had finer feehngs than a woman. This was his
misfortune, because it prevented him from getting on
LOVED AT LAST
497
in the world or being understood by ordinary people.
Thus he became self-centred. When his last support
failed him he fell. I believe he was a religious man ; I
have heard him talk with true religious feeling. He
approved of all my secret plans for my father^s welfare.
He came to see us every day, and I never heard a care-
less or reprehensible expression pass his lips. And now
to hear that old Mayor make those horrible speeches 1 '
‘I don't think he meant — ' stammered Don Inno-
cenzo.
‘I heard everything. If he returned to the castle
I am sure that it was at the earnest request of Donna
Marina. Only too well I remember what she said to
me on the way to the Horror. I am as certain as if I
had seen the letter or telegram. And at that time he
was neglected or despised by everyone. Who knows,
who knows, Don Innocenzo, what melancholy thoughts
he had, poor lad, when he found himself treated so
roughly by me, for all my religious principles * He who
begged for a helping hand to save him from drowning.
I might well have acted otherwise, and spoken to him
then as I wrote afterwards. But I thought — ^
She could not go on.
‘No,' replied the curate, *you should not get these
ideas into your head. How could you foresee all this ?
Wishing to accomplish a noble sacrifice, you took the
most prudent course, so as not to encourage vain hopes,
and to leave the young man entirely free.'
Edith presently raised her head.
‘ And not to be here to-morrow 1 ' she said.
‘Better so, believe me. You could not hide your
feelings from your father ; and who knows how much he
would suffer to see you like this.'
*At least,' whispered Edith, ‘see to it that some
MALOMBRA
498
kindly soul follows him to the grave. Say a prayer
afterwards, and make others pray.’
Don Innocenzo promised this, but she was not yet
content. There was another painful thought.
* Have they written to his friends ? ’
‘ I don’t know.’
‘Ah, even they did not care for him. I should like
to arrange for a little memorial stone. You must help
me, because nobody, least of all my father, must know
anything about it.’
Don Innocenzo silently pressed her hand.
‘I will send a small design from Milan,’ she said.
‘You can write to mtpste resfante^
* I will see to everything,’ replied the priest, ‘ as though
for a brother.’
The lamp was going out, the darkness spread through
the room.
Don Innocenzo rose.
‘Now go and take some rest,’ he said. But Edith
suggested waiting a little longer, as she was still agitated
and her father might call to her.
‘ Look ! ’ she said, standing in the doorway, ‘ what a
peaceful night.’
The sky was becoming covered with clouds. Still
many stars were shining in the strips of blue.
The church clock struck eleven.
‘Another hour,’ said Edith, ‘and then this day is
ended. To-morrow, it seems to me, and ever after, the
sun will rise of a different colour. For how many years ? ’
‘Oh, very many, I hope.’
‘ I do not know. I am thinking of my mother.’
‘Why of her?’
Edith did not reply. She took up a stick resting
against the wall and traced some figures in the sand.
LOVED AT LAST
499
* What are you doing ? ’ asked the priest
* Nothing,’ she replied, and rubbed out what she had
written.
Just then her father’s window was thrown open, and he
called out, —
* How is this ? Still up ? ’
‘Yes, father. It is such a lovely night, and I am not
sleepy.’
* It looks black on the mountains. I fear it will rain
to-morrow. When we return, we must remember the
Pedulii-Ripa lessons. We went away without telling
them.’
‘Yes, father/
‘ And Signora M is at home to-morrow.’
* We will go, father.’
‘ Do you happen to have seen my stick?’
‘ Here it is.’
* Will you bring it up, and my cigar-case which I left
in the dining-room ? ’
* I am coming in a minute, father.’
She entered the dining-room, making a silent gesture to
Don Innocenzo. He handed her the cigar-case, and she,
knowing who had given it, took it without looking at it.
The priest thought to himself, —
‘ What did she write ? ’
He put out the lamp and waited till Steinegge had
closed the window and the sound of footsteps had died
away ; then he took a small lantern, and bending down,
scanned the gravel
A word had been traced there, but the first half of it
had been rubbed out. The last four letters remained ;
stiff, strange letters which the curate, after long study,
made out to be —
. . MWEH
500
MALOMBRA
The rest was illegible.
‘ Weh means pain in German,' said Don Innocenzo to
himself. But the “ m " ? '
He rubbed out the letters and walked back, lost in
thought
Meanwhile, in the dark shadows of the castle, the
angel by Guercino prayed unceasingly for the man
flung suddenly, treacherously, into eternity. His life
had been brief, poor in results, darkened by much
secret anguish, and, at the close, by sins already con-
demned by the stern judgment of his fellow-men. Yet he
had fought a manly fight, falling every now and again, but
rising once more, wounded, to renew the contest ; he had
loved feverishly, with tears, divine phantoms unknown to
this world, ideals of a life sublime, which he, lonely
sufferer, divined in the future , he had passed along with
head erect, amidst the neglect of his fellows and the
silence of his God, overshadowed by a derisive foe, badly
equipped by temperament for the fight, torn by conflicting
impulses, unequal to the great tasks which he dreamed of,
to the small ones which pressed upon him ; to make him-
self loved, to live! Thus each day he was urged on,
by the malignity of fate and the weakness of his nature,
towards his ruin.
Had one uncovered his face, it was calm. Perhaps
the spirit which had been freed from sense and motion
and the bonds of life was now at rest there ^ like one who
IS about to leave, after long sojourn, a house which he
desired to quit, and who stands at the threshold, happy
indeed, but free from rancour, even with some shadow of
regret for the deserted, silent rooms. He knew that he
was going to his longed-for rest ; and he knew also, in
that clearness of vision to which he was now attaining,
that he was loved at last, in accordance with his dreams
LOVED AT LAST
501
on earth, by a strong, tender heart, which would be true
to him to the end. In the light beyond the grave, the
injustice of this world yielded place to a vision of order
and benevolence and wisdom.
But the fountains, murmuring softly to one another
in the stillness of the night, were saying that Marina
had passed away like Cecilia, and Count Csesar like his
ancestors before him, that new lords would come and
would pass away in their turn, and that it was not worth
while to trouble one’s self about them. When, towards
daybreak, the moon rose, and flooded the marble floor
of the loggia and the rich masses of foliage plants and
azaleas, which no one had taken the trouble to remove,
she seemed, with her voluptuous smile, to be seeking for
something which, that night, she did not find at the
castle, but which the vicissitudes of human affairs have
since then placed there \ other eyes to dazzle with
illusions, other hearts to stir with passion, in the place
of those which had just been set free for ever.
THE mx>.
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